


I Like You Better In Real Life

by Sweet_garlic



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Drinking, George Washington is a fanboy, Gilbert is a YouTuber, Internalized Homophobia, Internalized Transphobia, M/M, Mutual Pining, Nonbinary Character, Nonbinary Peggy, Salty wine mom John Adams, Trans Character, Trans lafayette, Updates Mondays and Thursdays, Vomiting, thank god for alcohol, youtube au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-22
Updated: 2017-02-13
Packaged: 2018-09-11 03:03:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 33,988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8951299
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sweet_garlic/pseuds/Sweet_garlic
Summary: George Washington is a sensible adult. Really. The fact that he is head over heels for a hot French YouTuber who makes decidedly un-sensible content does nothing to change this. He can deal with his crush... mostly.Lafayette is a YouTuber, George is a fanboy, and John Adams is trying to drink to forget.





	1. Prologue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew! This is going to be a doozy. Since it is a YouTube AU (Lafayette is a YouTuber), it takes place in a modern setting. I put some warnings in the tags (internalized homophobia/transphobia, drinking, vomiting) and I will put extra warnings in the beginning note of the chapters where those things show up. This fanfic is already written, and it will update regularly on Mondays and Thursdays.

“Thank you again, Mr. President. Goodbye, Mr. President.”

George Washington hung up and snapped his phone closed. His old friend Henry Knox had tried to convince him to get a smartphone, insisting that flip phones were “old-fashioned” and “obsolete,” but Washington still stubbornly refused. If his phone was old-fashioned, well, that was just fine with Washington. He was rather old-fashioned himself.

As the President stood from his chair, creaking joints reminded him that his body was becoming a bit old, too, though he hated to admit it. The President of the United States was in his early 40s, but the signs of age were already all too obvious.

Young or old, Washington could not deny the stress that leading a country had on him. He was tired; three years of the responsibility of Presidency felt more like ten years, and it showed.

Thankfully, it was currently only four in the afternoon and all was quiet in the country. The work that had needed to get done was done. The President shuffled through the papers on his desk, checked his email one last time, and glanced over his schedule. Nothing planned for the rest of the day. Confident that the nation would survive without him for one afternoon, George Washington left his office.

As he walked down the stairs to the Cross Hall, Washington called a number on his phone.

“John,” Washington said before his vice president could ask who was calling, “I’m taking the afternoon off. I’ve got no meetings or events for the rest of the day and the paperwork is done. You have the office for the rest of the day. Understood?”

George could hear John Adams’s momentary confusion on the other end of the line. The Vice President recovered quickly, saying smoothly, “Of course, sir. I do hope you enjoy your afternoon.” The last sentence was said with a hint of stiffness that Washington ignored. John Adams was a serious character, and while that made him good president material, he was not the best company for an enjoyable afternoon.

Washington took his time strolling the grounds around the White House. It wasn’t Mount Vernon, and he had to ignore the bodyguards and secret serviceman scattered about, but it was edging close to winter, and George would have to enjoy the sun while it lasted.

Walking aimlessly, he found himself drawn to the Washington Monument. The huge obelisk had been constructed for a man that George Washington had no relation to, but George still felt the need to protect his legacy. George made his way to a bench and sat down. After a good twenty minutes of watching the ducks and people that went by, he decided to go back to the White House.

He moved slowly, as he had been doing all afternoon. It was a chilly day in the middle of winter, the kind where the the air feels more like ice in your lungs, and George was thankful for his thick wool jacket. The sun had begun to set when George strode into the White House, the warmth enveloping him as he swung his coat over one arm. He strode down the Cross Hall and up the stairs. His pace quickened as he passed the Oval Office, but John Adams heard him and shouted for him anyways.

“Sir,” Adams called from inside the large room. Washington, stopped, breathed in his annoyance, then stuck his head in the door with a pleasant smile on his face.

“Anything need done, Adams?” he asked, raising a brow to say, _There had better not be._

Adams didn’t catch George’s not-so-subtle expression. “Well, sir,” he began, “There is always more work to be done. You need to draft a letter to-”

“Already drafted.”

“There are bills to be read through.”

“I’ll finish those later.”

“Well, what about the welcoming speech for-”

“The returning ambassador? I think you can do that, can’t you?”

Adams stared at him, feeling confused and more than a little betrayed as George Washington gave a tight smile and fled the room.

The President hurried down the hallway. He knew he had work to do, but he was tired. Running a country was not easy; besides, John Adams didn’t do nearly enough work as Vice President. Now was the time for the man to earn his keep.

Now was also the time for Washington to retreat to his room for some peace and quiet away from his workplace. Stopping at the door to the master suite, the tall man looked down the hallway at the doors to various bedrooms. In another time, this hall would have been populated with two giddy children; but that was not to be so. Martha had left, taking custody over them and not allowing them to look back at their step-father. She didn’t look back, either.

For a moment, all was quiet in Center Hall.

George Washington shook his head and pushed the door open to the master suite. The four-poster bed was magnificent, and the sheets were inviting; George would’ve taken a nap if there wasn’t something else he had in mind for the afternoon.

He made his way to the desk at the side of the room. Settling into a matching wooden chair, George turned on the computer that was placed there. The computer screen brightened slowly and eventually showed the desktop, a picture of rolling fields of wheat set as the background. George opened Internet Explorer and typed in the familiar address: _youtube.com._ He didn’t bother using private browsing; he knew how to delete his internet history, and the NSA could monitor his internet usage anyways.

Once the page finally loaded, George checked his subscriptions. The man didn’t follow many channels, and those that he did follow usually involved George’s love for dancing. There were three new videos, and two of them George promised to watch later, but one of them George clicked on immediately.

George was a down-to-earth, responsible adult. He was raised on a Virginian farm and learned to survey land. He was a venerated veteran of two wars, one of which he was the general that led America to righteous victory. His sobriety and sensibility were famous across the land. He had never been one to have romantic flairs, but he got an embarrassing enjoyment from one of his YouTube subscriptions.

His username was The Marquis, and he was a flamboyant Frenchman who made videos about anything and everything - from his favorite clothes to social justice issues. Some of his videos were in French, and some of them were in English. Thankfully, the man captioned all of his videos, so George could watch them all without the language barrier.

Whether or not George could understand the Marquis’ words, he loved hearing the Frenchman speak English. His accent was adorable, and George found himself smiling every time he had to correct his pronunciation. The French phrases sprinkled in were endearing, and the way the Marquis’ accent made him purr certain words did _things_ to George.

On the surface of his thoughts, George denied the attraction - he simply enjoyed the man’s videos, and besides, he was a bit old for schoolyard crushes. He knew the truth deep down, though: he had fallen hard.

It had been years since he had felt this way. Watching the Marquis in his daily life filled George with the simple enjoyment of seeing the happiness of another; even just passing thoughts of the Frenchman had the ability to make the President smile. When he wasn’t focused on work, his thoughts would stray to the curly hair and beaming smile and the _biceps._ In one video in French, the Marquis had worn a tank top and there were many shots that gave George a perfect view of the other man’s arms; George was ashamed to admit that he had revisited that video a few more times than would probably be deemed appropriate.

George suddenly realized that he had been thinking so much about his beloved Marquis, he hadn’t even been actively been watching the video that had played; he clicked the rewind button and enjoyed watching the Frenchman struggle to make baguettes. Ah, quality content.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We all know that George would use Internet Explorer.


	2. Chapter 1

George straightened out a pile of freshly-written letters on his desk as Vice President John Adams stalked in. “I wish to speak to you,” Adams hissed through his teeth. Washington looked up with an open smile, raising his eyebrows in mock surprise at his veep’s venom.

Adams straightened himself to his full five feet seven inches which, to 6’2” Washington, was not as impressive as he would hope. “Sir,” the Vice President began, “You left in the middle of the day yesterday.” The man looked pointedly at George, as if this accusation was one that demanded a detailed explanation and sincere apology.

Instead George shook his head at his Vice President. “John, I was taking the afternoon off. Unlike you, I don’t get to visit my home as often as I’d like,” the President said, raising one eyebrow at him. “The nation didn’t fall apart, and I got to enjoy myself for a bit. It’s nothing to be worried about.”

“I’d still like you to warn me a bit in advance next time,” Adams huffed.

“I’ll do my best,” Washington said, waving his hands in the air, “Now get back to work.”

Adams did not get back to work, to George’s annoyance. Instead, he stayed in the same place and said, “Actually, sir, there is a small matter of business to be conducted. Nothing too formal, I assure you.”

George looked up hesitantly. Every time something was “nothing too formal,” it was always very formal and required George to wear a terribly fancy and terribly uncomfortable suit. “What is it?” he sighed, ready for another evening of stuffy conversation and pressing questions from magazine reporters.

Adams smiled tightly. “Well, you said you wanted to know your staff better-”

“Oh, God.”

“-so there are a few new interns that you might like to meet.”

George blinked. That… actually wasn’t formal. He sat back in his chair relieved, and murmured, “A few interns, huh? I can do that. Who are they?”

“One in the Treasury Department, one in Public Relations, and another in International Affairs. I instructed them to wait in the Vermeil Room,” Adams said.

Washington nodded. “Alright, well, I’ll see to it,” he said, standing from his chair.

Adams looked taken aback. “Sir,” he stuttered, “What are you doing?”

“Meeting some interns. I’ll be back in fifteen minutes or so,” Washington said as he moved past Adams.

“But-!”

“You’ll survive!” Washington called over his shoulder, and he was out the door.

George Washington strode down the hallway, rolling his eyes. Honestly, Adams was far too serious. It would simply be him meeting a few interns; how could anything go wrong?

George stood in front of the Vermeil Room, taking a moment to straighten his tie. He was lucky that his house didn’t have any tourists currently. George probably would have been mortified, and Adams would have thrown a fit. A bigger fit than the one he was throwing now, that is. George banished the thought of his touchy Vice President for the moment, focusing instead on creating a smile and pushing open the door.

George stopped.

The warm room held three men, all youngish and handsome in their own ways, but George’s eye was caught by one man in particular.

The Marquis. The Marquis, George’s favorite flamboyant Frenchman, was standing in the East Wing of George’s house. Examining the flowers. Turning around. Looking at George with those impossibly dark eyes.

George put everything that wasn’t completely enraptured by the radiant Frenchman in front of him into not making himself look like a total fool. He was sure he looked like a fool anyways. Anyone would, in the presence of this - this _god_. The Marquis’s lips were full, his skin glowed, the dark suit he wore hung perfectly on his thin frame. And when his eyes met George’s - George was lost. He thought he had fallen for him before this, but now he was tumbling, crashing into love - or attraction, at least.

George allowed himself one moment of worship to this man in front of him, then covered every trace of his emotions with layers of years of professional training and a perfected poker face. He straightened himself and let his eyes travel across the other two interns. It seemed that neither of them had seen his momentary lapse in emotions. Good.

“Hello,” George greeted the men stiffly. “I, ah, well, it seems I’m here to welcome you to working in D.C. government. I know internships might not seem like a big deal, but we’re glad to have you here,” he said, giving a small smile.

One of the men stepped forwards as soon as George stopped speaking. “Mr. President, sir!” he said enthusiastically, sticking out a hand, “I’m Alexander Hamilton, at your service, sir!”

George felt his grin widening at the young man’s eager character. Hamilton’s smile seemed to brighten the room, and every piece of his body language communicated a restless energy. This was the kind of person you could spot from a mile away, the kind that would rise in power through sheer force of will. George Washington made sure to remember his name.

Alexander Hamilton talked a mile a minute while shaking the President’s hand, and it was everything George could do to keep up with him. He resorted to smiling and nodding at the endless flood of words spilling from Hamilton’s mouth.

Finally, Hamilton shuffled to the side to allow the Marquis to step forwards. George fixed his smile, trying not to let his grin widen beyond the limits of “it’s nice to have you working here even though I don’t know you.” When the Marquis stepped forwards, George could smell his perfume - nothing he recognized, but the fruity smell was just strong enough to flirt with his senses. It took all of his self control not to step closer and breathe in the Frenchman’s scent, commit it to memory. Instead, George shook the delicate hand offered to him and listened, enraptured, as his beloved Frenchman introduced himself.

“I am Gilbert du Motier de La Fayette, Marquis de La Fayette,” he said smoothly, sprinkling his words with that _beautiful_ accent. “It is a pleasure to be working here now,” Lafayette added.

George was surprised that he didn’t melt on the spot. The fact that he was here, speaking with the Marquis ( _Lafayette_ ), shaking his hand, looking directly into eyes that looked back. His hands were delicate, his voice was soft, and his gentle smile lit up the room more than a thousand Hamiltons ever could. George was awe struck with the man standing before him.

But he couldn’t let any of that show. So, instead of blushing and blubbering out his admiration like the young fool inside of him wanted to, he kept his smile polite and let go of Lafayette’s hand after a respectful time. He nodded considerately and heard himself saying, “Lafayette. French?” as if he didn’t know already, as if he had never heard the man speak in his native tongue.

Though he barely perceived himself, George noticed everything about Lafayette’s response. “Oui, I lived in France as a child, but moved to America when I was 19. I have enjoyed my time here thoroughly, and I would like to give back to the country that has given me so much,” Lafayette said, and George could hear the adoration for the country of America in his voice. He would be lying if he said that he didn’t imagine what it would be like if that adoration was aimed towards him.

Before George was ready, before he could sear the image, the sound, the feeling of his beloved Marquis de Lafayette in his mind, Lafayette moved aside to gesture in the third intern.

George barely registered him. Wide smile, easygoing; John Laurens. George hoped that he had continued to smile and keep his eyes on the man shaking his hand, but he couldn’t be sure of anything while he was stuck in this haze.

George could only vaguely remember exiting the room after saying how pleased he was to see fresh new faces in the government. As he made his way up the stairs, he felt giddy. Drunk. He had met the Marquis. Lafayette. God, the man had a name. Gilbert. Lafayette. Marquis. George whispered the name to himself, too quietly for anyone to hear. “Gilbert du Motier de Lafayette, Marquis de Lafayette,” he sighed, feeling the syllables roll around in his mouth, testing the sounds on his tongue. He wanted to know what it would be like, speaking that name to Lafayette himself, to say his name and have Lafayette look up at him expectantly, waiting to hear what he had to say. Having easy conversations. Holding each other in the quiet between conversation topics and reveling in the other’s breathing.

George was still lost in the haze of Lafayette when he stepped into his office. He didn’t even bother to look up when Adams stood up.

“George,” the Vice President began, concern evident in his voice, “Are you alright?”

It was only then that George snapped out of his daze. “Um, yes,” he stammered, eager to look presentable in front of the Vice President. Apparently, it didn’t work.

“George,” Adams repeated, “You look distracted. Are you sure you’re alright? No health problems?” The man was concerned for Washington, not only as a co-worker, but as a friend. He had known George before he had gotten involved in politics; the two had fought alongside each other in war and formed a brotherly bond only created in the hellish conditions of a warzone. They had seen each other through thick and thin, and John knew when something was off with his friend.

When George denied him again, Adams frowned. “I like to think that I know you well enough to know when something’s wrong,” Adams stated sternly. “What is going on?”

George stared at the shorter man for a moment, recognizing the stubbornness that had always resided in him. John Adams would not stop asking until he got the answer he was looking for. Still, George persisted in trying not to be a burden for his friend.

“Nothing is-”

“Bullshit.”

“Language!” George snapped before putting his head in his hands. “I- I don’t know. Um. Hm. I can’t say there’s been a reason for being distracted for the last few days - I’ve been tired, I guess - but. Hm.”

John Adams raised a brow at him. George Washington was not the most eloquent man, but his various pauses showed that there really was something on his mind, and something he didn’t want to say.

“It sounds strange- God, it is strange! What am I doing? Nevermind. Forget all of this. I’m fine,” George stammers.

Adams’s brow did not lower. “However strange it is, I think I can deal with it,” the man said dryly.

George looked away. His face was red, and he knew it. “I think- hm- I think I’m attracted to someone,” he mumbled. He didn’t dare look at his Vice President afterwards, fearing judgement and disapproval directed at his childish feelings.

Instead, he got John Adams stepping forward and touching his shoulder lightly. “George,” he said, “You don’t have to be ashamed of that.”

The President was shocked. It wasn’t that he was ashamed… was it? Maybe it was just who he had a crush on that he was ashamed of. A young French-American YouTuber who was now an intern in International Affairs wasn’t exactly the ideal lover for the President of the United States, and George was all too aware of that. Inside, deep down, he knew that there was no lover fit for the President of the United States. Romance complicated things. While marriages were set in stone, new relationships were rocky and unpredictable, and wild emotions could affect one’s ability to lead. Part of the reason why some people wouldn’t support him was because he had experienced a divorce during his campaign; they said that he would be too depressed to lead, and besides, when was the last time there was a single President in office? Not since the 1800s; nobody knew how it would work out in modern times.

George was pulled from his thoughts by Adams asking, “So, what’s her name?”

It was then that George finally processed: Lafayette was a man. A rather feminine man who thoroughly enjoyed make up and apparently had wonderful taste in perfume, but a man nonetheless. George Washington, having only loved women his entire life, was in love with a man.

“Shit,” George said, momentarily forgetting his own rule about language, “I’m gay.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoo! First meeting! Also, I used "gay" at the end to basically say "not straight." George has no idea how these things actually work *sigh*. Prepare yourselves for Actual Wine Mom™ John Adams next chapter.


	3. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Geeeeeeet ready for Wine Mom John Adams! And drinking! Whoo! I had a lot of fun with this chapter, so I hope you'll enjoy!

Adams gaped at his boss; Washington himself was still processing it. The President spoke the words again, as if testing the feeling of them in his mouth.

“I’m gay,” he stated, brow furrowed. George wasn’t sure how to feel about this revelation. He had only ever dated women, only ever been attracted to women, never even thought about what it would be like to be attracted to a man. But now…

“John,” he said, turning to his Vice President, “John, I’m gay.” He didn’t smile, nor did he feel the sense of rushing relief he had heard others experienced when embracing their sexuality. It didn’t seem to mark any change in him - it was just another truth, another part of himself. George Washington, President of the United States, was gay.

Huh.

The Vice President, however, did not feel the same way George did about this new information.

“George!” he spluttered, glancing around to make sure no one had heard them. “That isn’t the sort of thing you can just say out loud!” Gay marriage was legalized, but there was still a large part of the country that didn’t want gay people involved in their lives, let alone as their president.

Washington nodded wordlessly and allowed Adams to push him into the room. The sound of a door slamming barely registered in his brain as he wrestled with the fact that he was gay, that it meant something, that he wasn’t just George Washington, that now he was George Washington, The Gay President. That he was different now.

“Alright, George,” Adams growled, stalking towards him, “What was that all about? What do you mean you’re _gay_?” The Vice President spat out the last word as if it were a poison, something to be tucked away and hidden.

George straightened when he heard John’s tone of voice. “By gay, I mean gay, Mr. Vice President. I am currently attracted to a man, someone of my own gender, which means I’m a member of the LGBT community. If you don’t like that, you can find someone else to work for.” George was surprised at his defensiveness; he was rarely an aggressive person, but the thought of hiding who he was brought a fire of protective anger.

Adams was equally shocked at his friend’s reaction; when he heard the President’s tone of voice, he shrunk away momentarily in fear. George Washington was not a man you wanted angry at you.

“I apologize, sir,” Adams stammered. “I just said that because, well, there would be a lot of people who would be unhappy with a gay president - I’m fine with it, of course, you know that, but - some people wouldn’t be.”

George sighed and rubbed his face, the energy from before drained from his body. “I know,” he muttered, “I know. I think I just need some time. I have work to do.” The President gestured at his desk and gave a tight smile to John Adams. The smile wasn’t returned.

“Perhaps we should talk about this later,” Adams suggested. “Over dinner, maybe?”

Washington nodded, brooding over his papers. That would give him time to sort this out.

Hopefully.

\-----------------------

Adams was silent when Washington met him in front of the White House for dinner. When Washington attempted to strike up conversation, the other man refused to speak, forcing them to sit in uncomfortable silence on the way to their chosen restaurant. Adams picked the restaurant; Italian, thankfully. Washington didn’t think he was ready for French cuisine.

Even as the pair sat in a reserved corner of the restaurant, secluded and with enough chatter around them to drown out any conversation they might have had, Adams did not speak of what had happened earlier.

Instead, he kept the conversation forcefully light. As President of the United States, George knew the importance of politics and timing, but even he was finding John’s behavior to be irritating. Not only that, but it was abnormal for his friend to so determinedly avoid an issue. Finally, George, decided to speak up.

“John,” he began hesitantly, “About today-”

“No.” The Vice President interrupted him sharply. For a moment, he fixed Washington with a glare, until he took a breath and externally calmed himself. “We can talk about it later. Right now, let’s just enjoy dinner, shall we?” John’s mouth widened in an expression that was equal parts smile and grimace. It didn’t satisfy George’s itch for discussion, but the President decided to stay quiet until they got to a more private place. They would talk about it there. They would have to.

\--------------------

A black vehicle drove noiselessly through the streets of Washington D.C., and the people inside were just as silent as the muffled engine of the car. The atmosphere wasn’t tense, not really, but the subject that had been left untouched through dinner now hung heavy over the executive leaders and their bodyguards. John Adams avoided it just as doggedly as he had earlier, choosing to play with his cuffs rather than look at the President. George Washington was watching John, waiting for the moment when he would be relaxed enough for him to pounce and get him alone to talk.

Finally, that moment came.

The car was just about to round the corner of Pennsylvania Avenue when Washington spoke up, regarding Adams with a careful and calculated gaze.

“How about a drink?” George said. It was not a question. George Washington had been a general before becoming President, and he knew how to be just threatening enough when it mattered. Right now, it mattered.

“Oh, I think I’m fin-” John responded, his voice tight, until he saw his friend’s face. If somebody bothered to ask him, he would swear that he saw murder in the President’s eyes. “But, uh, I’m always open to a few drinks after dinner,” the terrified Vice President corrected himself quickly. Washington nodded at that, seemingly pleased with the answer.

The two men stepped out of the car when it reached the White House, both flanked by security guards and George Washington looking significantly less terrified than John Adams. They made their by side by side up the walkway to the front door of the White House, and even a casual observer would be able to notice the distance the two men kept.

Once the pair had gotten to the privacy of the President’s personal sitting room, George dismissed the security guards. The lack of large, powerful people to protect him did not make John any less nervous, and he kept his distance from the other man.

George offered an easy smile to the Vice President. Now that John was there to listen, he wanted him as open to offering opinions as possible. Despite being a man of many experiences, George Washington had never questioned his sexuality. The fact that he was now attracted to a man was something he didn’t know how to handle, and he needed his Vice President’s assistance now more than ever.

“Relax, have a drink with me,” George offered, already pouring two glasses of bourbon. He took them over to the couch, offering a seat and the golden liquid to his friend. John Adams flattened his lips together hesitantly, but perched on the couch beside George.

“I suppose we can’t avoid talking about it, can we?” John questioned morosely, gazing down at his drink.

“I don’t know, you’ve been avoiding it pretty well so far tonight.” George chuckled, trying his hand at casual banter to lighten the mood.

It didn’t work as well as he had hoped. The corner of John’s mouth quirked up, but his expression quickly flattened into one of seriousness. He knew that George was trying to make this seem like a casual conversation, but nothing about it was casual. His friend was more scared than he let on, and he knew it.

“I’m sorry that I tried to keep from talking about it,” John apologized formally. His posture was stiff as he continued. “I didn’t want the possibility of someone overhearing our conversation. You know how hard it was to pass marriage rights; the idea of a gay president would drive some people to homicide! How did you even come to the _absurd_ conclusion that you were gay?”

George avoided his friend’s eyes, choosing instead to swirl his drink in his glass. He took a long, slow sip before responding.

“I’ve been attracted to a man for some time. A few months, I suppose, at this point. I just… I never realized what it really meant,” he admitted. “I mean, I knew that I liked a man, but it never came to me ‘Oh, I’m gay,’ you know?” George chuckled at that. It sounded silly, saying it out loud, but John was nodding along, watching the President’s face intently.

“Can I ask who this man is?” John questioned hesitantly.

George swirled his drink in his glass, . His hands were shaking. “Um…” he began, his voice cracking with nervousness. “Lafayette, the new intern?” It came out like a question more than a statement, making him sound like a guilty child who had done something he wasn’t supposed to. It took John a while to respond, giving George’s nerves enough time to grow worse and worse until he felt like his fear was going to envelop him.

When John did speak, it came out as a whisper. “Lafayette?” he whispered.

“Yes, and I-” George tried to speak, but he was cut off.

“You said you’ve liked him for months! You only met him this morning!” John shouted suddenly.

“Now, I know it sounds strange-”

“Damn right, it sounds strange! How can you fall in love with someone you met this morning? Hell, did you even properly meet him? You know his name, you know where he works. What else? You know he’s French? Is that all it takes? I thought you were better than that,” John spat.

George was indignant. “Watch your tone-” he began.

“Watch my tone? _Watch my tone?_ You met this man this morning and you’re already saying you love him! This is misplaced attraction. If you actually got to know this man, you’d probably find him distasteful, unsatisfying. You’re making a mountain out of a molehill! And you’re usually so serious,” Adams tutted.

“Are you suggesting I’m not acting the way a leader should?” George asked, his voice low.

Adams sneered. “I’m suggesting that you’re upset your wife left you and now you’re just projecting your feelings onto some little French _boytoy_ -”

George Washington saw red.

“ _JOHN ADAMS!_ ” George roared. “I will _not_ allow you to disrespect me or my associates in my own home! You damned poltroon, you do not understand because you have not been listening to what I’ve said!” George clenched his fists, his carefully crafted composure snapping as he raged to his Vice President. He gave himself a moment to calm down, breathing deeply and rubbing his scalp with one hand. In his fury, he had risen from his seat to tower over John Adams. Finally, he sat back down, staring at the wall ahead of him and refusing to look at John.

“It is true that I have been attracted to him for months,” Washington said, his voice tight and barely controlled. John Adams was perfectly still as he watched him, worried that any movement would set off the ticking time bomb that was George Washington in this moment.

“Monsieur Lafayette has a YouTube channel, a ‘vlog’ I believe it is called,” George said through gritted teeth. “I’ve been subscribed for a few months now, and I’ve enjoyed it immensely. I think that Lafayette is very attractive.” George felt his cheeks heat up at the last part, and tried to hide his blush by taking a drink of bourbon.

“The President is attracted to a new French intern because he’s been stalking his YouTube channel,” John stated. He looked down at his drink. “At least I have alcohol to get me through this,” he sighed, taking a swig of the golden liquid.

“I’m not stalking him!” George squawked, “I’m just a fan!”

“So you’ve been a ‘fan’ for a while,” John Adams murmured, and George nodded in response. “I suppose that does count as knowing him. But are you sure it’s attraction and not just admiration?”

George felt a small smile come to his face. “Yes,” he admitted softly, “I’m attracted to him. His laugh is so wonderful, he smiles so wide… Anyone would be lucky to have him.”

“What do you think is the most attractive thing about him?” John asked, doing his best to sound innocent.

“His arms definitely. They’re so strong,” he hummed, taking a sip of his bourbon. When he finally looked over at John, he noticed the man’s smirk. “What?” he asked.

John chuckled. “Just… George Washington, war veteran and President of the United States, has a schoolgirl crush,” he laughed.

George felt his blush grow. “This is ridiculous, isn’t it?” he mumbled. Lafayette was young and handsome, and George was an aging President with an ugly divorce. It would take someone with a much smaller dating pool to want to get involved with George Washington.

George heard John give a short, almost bitter, laugh. “Of course it’s ridiculous,” the Vice President scoffed, “But that doesn’t mean it’s impossible. You could be, what’s it called, a sugar daddy or some shit like that.”

The President choked on his bourbon.

“...or maybe something more personal?” John asked with a smile.

George nodded, red in the face, while John snickered next to him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When u and the bae are fighting... BUT ANYWAYS see you next Monday!


	4. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year!

Once John left, George set himself to readying for bed. Brushing his teeth, fetching a glass of water, dressing in bedclothes - all mundane actions that weren’t changed at all by his sexual orientation. Before he slipped into bed, he did a quick google search. _Bisexual?_ It seemed like the best word to describe him.

He resigned himself to bed, pulling the silk sheets up to his chin, turning the word over in his mind.

What was going to happen tomorrow? Would he speak to Lafayette again? What would happen if he did? If he didn’t see the Frenchman, how was he going to figure out how to see him on a regular basis? What if Lafayette didn’t want to see him on a regular basis - what if he thought it was too weird to be friends with the President? Not for the first time, George cursed his rank and the formality that it invited.

George Washington missed not being President, missed not being a military hero, missed the blessed anonymity he had once enjoyed at his home in Virginia. The only reason that he had run for President was due to John Adams’ convincing, and to keep the villainous George Clinton out of office. Now Clinton was the governor of New York and John Adams wasn’t quite as persuasive as he was three years ago. George longed to feel fresh soil in his fingers rather than government papers, and the comfort of his porch swing was far more inviting than the stiff-backed chair in the Oval Office.

And, though he hated to admit it, he missed his ex-wife.

Martha Dandridge Custis had married him when they were both in their late twenties, desperate to find love before it was too late. She had already married once, but her husband had died in an unfortunate accident. After his passing, Martha was widowed with two children and longing for another soulmate. Washington met her during his military service, and they fell for each other almost instantly. Martha was beautiful, practical, witty; she was George’s image of a perfect woman. George was handsome, serious, and ready to devote himself to a family. He asked her out on a date without knowing about her husband’s recent death, and, incredibly, she accepted. The two hit it off amazingly, and it was only a few years after they met that they started arranging for a marriage.

When George Washington started running for Presidency at the insistence of his friend John Adams, Martha Washington started complaining about how often her husband was absent. A few months into campaigning, she said that he had the choice to either drop out of the race and come home to their children, or to keep campaigning and come home to no family at all.

When President Washington moved into the White House, he moved into an empty home.

Now, three years after his divorce, George was beginning to feel the loneliness seep into his bones. He had married Martha with the hopes of having a life partner, someone he could grow old with, and he was regretting his choice to let her leave. He was too tired to have the conversation with her then, and he was tired now. Just two years of having the responsibilities of Presidency on his shoulders felt more like five years, and George Washington was tired. He wanted to go home.

George lay awake for hours, thoughts of Mount Vernon, Martha, and the Marquis de Lafayette chasing themselves around his head. Each one brought up images of the other, and George could find no conclusion to his thoughts besides sleep.

The new interns were much less troubled than Washington was.

Currently, they had gathered their friends for an impromptu round of drinks that, if they didn’t have work the next day, would have quickly become two rounds, then three, then four. Now, though, they were content to toast and share their joviality with the rest of the group.

“To new beginnings!” shouted Lafayette, who was excited to finally give back to the nation he loved.

“To new work!” cried Alexander, who never had enough to do.

“To paychecks!” yelled John Laurens, who just wanted to get paid.

“Maybe now you can pay me back for the suits I made you,” joked the barrel-chested man sitting next to Laurens.

A person in a server’s uniform with a nametag that read “Peggy” came up behind him, nudging his shoulder with their hip. “You’re complaining, Herc,” they said, “I haven’t seen any tips yet.” They raised a pointed eyebrow at the group seated at the table.

“Come on, Pegs, we haven’t even gotten our first paycheck. Cut us some slack!” John Laurens protested.

“Speaking of your first paycheck,” a woman dressed in salmon pink spoke up, “Are we going to have a celebration for that, too?” She smirked, indicating the alcohol in front of her. “So far, we’ve gone out for drinks three times: for getting the jobs, for the night before your first day for ‘good luck,’ and now for your first day. Any more alcohol needed?”

“Angelica,” Alexander chided, “there’s always more alcohol needed.”

Angelica shook her head, rolling her eyes. She and her sister Eliza shared a glance that could have been the same as a heavy sigh.

“Well,” Eliza said cheerily, smoothing over her sister’s exasperation, “I’m really glad that you were all able to get jobs. So how was your first day?”

“I think we’re still not-”

“We met the President!” Alexander squealed, interrupting Lafayette.

“Hang on, you met the President? Like, President of the United States?” Hercules asked, incredulous.

“No, asshole, the president of the Treasury Department Softball Club,” John mocked. “Yes, the President of the United States.”

“What was he like?” Eliza asked, wide-eyed.

“Probably just as boring as ever,” Angelica said. “I swear, he acts like everybody’s white dad that wears socks and sandals. He probably has an apron that says ‘grill master’ somewhere in his kitchen,” she scoffed.

“Well, he was pretty quiet,” Alexander mused.

“That’s because you didn’t shut up and give him a chance to talk,” Laurens quipped, nudging Alexander with his shoulder and giving him his trademark wide smile.

Alex blushed, presumably from his friend’s comment. “I think the President was pretty alright,” Laurens declared. Angelica raised a brow at his descriptive language. “He seemed nice and all, but he didn’t seem very focused. I guess he’s got a lot to think about, being the President and all.”

After listening to Laurens’ opinion, Eliza turned towards Lafayette, who had been unusually quiet. “So, Laf, what do you think? How’s the Prez?”

Lafayette took a long sip of his beer before replying. “Alex is right, he did not speak much. He was polite, he had a nice handshake,” he contemplated.

“He had big hands,” John remarked.

“Yeah, Laf, don’t you have a size kink?” Alexander asked teasingly.

Laf shoved at his friend, gasping dramatically. “Kink-shamed by my own friends, I cannot believe this! This is America - let me be free!” he yelled, taking another swig of his drink.

“I think I’ll be using my ‘freedom’ to leave and go home,” Angelica chuckled. “Some of us have work tomorrow.”

At this, the others nodded and mumbled their agreement. Jackets and bags were gathered up, bills were paid, parting comments were made. John Laurens continued to rag Alexander and Alexander continued to tell himself that his blush was from embarrassment, only that. Eliza hugged everybody, including Peggy, and everybody hugged back. Alexander and Lafayette both left for their shared apartment and Hercules went off to his own flat.

When everybody had gone, Peggy was left cleaning their table and smiling at the small pile of tips in the center.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is like the only chapter where Angelica shows up tbh. See y'all on Thursday!


	5. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay here we go friends. Sorry it's a bit late in the day, school is starting up again and I haven't had time to post until now!

George Washington was dressed to the nines. He had been dressing nicely for a little over a week in anticipation of seeing his favorite French intern, but so far, his tailored suits and silk socks were in vain; he hadn’t caught a glimpse of any of the new interns all week. It wasn’t surprising - the President usually only interacted with his cabinet and any secretaries that brought in reports. Interns only ever worked in their own department, especially new interns.

Unless Washington went out of his way to see Lafayette, it was likely that a single dreamy handshake would be the only time he would ever meet the Frenchman in person.

Now that his Vice President knew what was going on, much of George Washington’s free time was spent complaining about his love life to John Adams. Every time, John gave him the same advice, and every time, George refused to comply.

“Just ask him out for a drink! Do something casual, it’s not a big deal,” John Adams grumbled after a bout of listening to George moaning about his lack of a relationship with his crush.

“How am I supposed to make it casual? I’m the President, nothing I do is ever casual,” George said, rubbing his scalp with his hands. “Even if I wasn’t the President, I’m never in the same place as he is - we work in different parts of the building!”

“This building is where you live,” John snapped. “You can go wherever you want!”

The logical part of George’s brain knew that John was right; he was allowed to go anywhere in the White House with no questions asked. Taking a walk around his home would not be so strange. However, George couldn’t deny the feeling that any attempts to ask Lafayette for “casual drinks” would go terribly wrong. George Washington’s instinct had gotten him through two wars and three years of Presidency, and he trusted that it would get him through his interactions with Lafayette as well.

 

As George waited for the perfect moment, time passed. One week, then two, then three, and eventually a year flew by. The President saw Lafayette in passing once or twice, but by then the Frenchman had gotten a boyfriend. He could never think of dating someone older than him, and his friend was just as youthful and beautiful as he was. Cut to two years later: Washington was still the President, and Lafayette and his wonderful fiancé were married in the White House. Washington stopped by the reception to bid congratulations, and Lafayette gushed at how wonderful his groom was and how he was so in love and could never imagine being with anyone else -

No! George Washington snapped out of his daydream suddenly. He could not allow the chance to date someone as wonderful as the Marquis de Lafayette pass him by! To hell with his instinct, now was the time for action!

George stood up. Then sat back down. Then stood up again. As eager as he was to act on his sudden inspiration, the niggling in his gut held him down. George recognized his indecisiveness and cursed it - he knew from experience that there was nothing weaker than someone who couldn’t make up their mind. Fortunately, his experiences also taught him that the best way to decide on a course of action was to think on it over food.

Normally, the President would have one of his secretaries order his lunch for him and then eat while working, but he often found that the quiet ambience that could only be found in small restaurants and cafes offered wonderful environments for thinking. The President snatched up his jacket from the back of his chair and informed his secretary that he would be going out for lunch.

George Washington’s favorite place to eat out was a small sandwich shop, just on the edge of Washington D.C. and nestled in an alleyway. It’s location and rather uninviting appearance made it an unpopular place to have lunch, so George was able to enjoy his food largely unbothered.

However, that did not seem possible today.

George noticed him as soon as he stepped into the small cafe. Even standing at the register and giving his order to the grouchy teenager working as cashier, Marquis de Lafayette seemed to have the uncanny ability to brighten a room. George Washington’s throat tightened with nervousness and he could feel his face beginning to heat up as Lafayette finished ordering and turned to regard him, uninterested at first. When the Marquis finally realized who it was he was looking at, his eyes widened and he straightened up noticeably. George winced internally; even here, in a relaxed environment, formality followed him like a disease.

Washington nodded slightly at Lafayette, offering him a small smile. Lafayette nodded in return, seemingly too shocked to see the President out to lunch to say anything. Washington gave his order to the cashier while the Frenchman stood to the side, trying to do anything but look at the President purchasing a tuna sandwich.

When George stepped away from the register to wait for his order, he moved closer to Lafayette, mimicking his pose. He clasped his hands together and leaned back against the counter, his shoulder not quite brushing Lafayette’s. The proximity forced Lafayette to glance at the President, and George almost melted at the feeling of having those soft brown eyes trained on him again. He smiled gently, and spoke in the same way.

“Marquis de Lafayette, yes?” he asked, the smile never leaving his lips.

Lafayette seemed shocked for just a moment, at a loss for what to say, before answering, “Yes, Mr. President.”

When the Frenchman looked away and stopped talking, George continued on, desperate to start a conversation with him. “We met last week. I remember you.” He mentally kicked himself as soon as the words left his mouth. Lafayette already knew that he remembered him, George just called him by his goddamn name.

Lafayette, however, did not notice this slip up, or was just too nervous to say anything. “Yes, sir, it was an honor to have met you,” he said in a rushed breath, as if he was trying to get the words out as quickly as possible. George noticed that his accent was a bit thicker than last time.

An idea began to formulate in George’s head. There was no guarantee that it would work - in fact, he was quite sure it would fail - but he was willing to take the risk if it meant being able to spend time with Lafayette.

“Do you want to eat lunch together?” George Washington asked, moments before Lafayette’s sandwich was placed on the counter.

Lafayette was completely taken aback with the question, and fumbled with his answer. “Ah - _oui_ , of course - I wasn’t expecting that - not that it’s bad, _non_ , I am just surprised. Thank you? I know not what - sorry, I do not know what to say,” he stammered, grabbing his wrapped sandwich quickly and holding it to his chest as if protecting himself.

Washington felt a wave of rejection wash over him. “You don’t have to, it was just an offer. If you have other plans, that’s fine, it was just an idea; I thought it would be nice to get to know you better,” he mumbled, trying to make his suggestion seem less demanding and hoping that he didn’t sound like a dejected child.

Lafayette, however, only stared at the President with wide eyes. “You want… to know me better?” he asked, as if he wasn’t quite sure if he had heard Washington right.

George nodded, shrugging slightly. “You said that you’re from France, and I thought it would be interesting to talk to you and see how you’re liking America so far,” he said, forcing his tone to stay light and relaxed.

“Oh. Yes. It would be an honor to tell you about coming to America from France,” Lafayette responded, seemingly starstruck. Ah, how the tables turn.

George picked up his sandwich from where it had been placed on the counter and grinned slightly. “Let’s go find a table then,” he offered, gesturing for Lafayette to lead the way. Inside, George felt a guilty twist in his gut. He already knew differences between France and America; Lafayette had made and published a video on it about a year ago. George had watched and rewatched the video many times; it made him uncomfortable that he already knew what Lafayette would talk about, and Lafayette didn’t realize it.

The Frenchman chose a small spot in the corner of the restaurant. It was somewhat dark, but it was quiet and farther away from the other customers; George felt a thrill go through him at being almost alone with his crush. He couldn’t help but smile to himself as he unwrapped his sandwich.

“One of the most noticeable differences between France and America is actually lunch,” Lafayette mentioned shyly, choosing to focus on his own food rather than meeting George’s eyes.

George did not respond, waiting for the Frenchman to continue. When he stayed silent, George raised a brow and allowed the corner of his lips to twitch upwards. “Can you elaborate?” he asked, not unkindly, as he watched Lafayette play with the wrapping paper.

Lafayette tensed in his seat momentarily. “Well, you know, everything is different everywhere, cultures are different, habits are different, there’s nothing wrong with them, they’re just different and that is _fine_ -”

“Lafayette,” George cut off the Marquis’ rambling. “You don’t have to be so nervous. I’m not going to bite your head off, I just want to know a little bit about where you come from. That’s all,” he murmured, doing his best to calm down the spooked man across from him. Lafayette visibly relaxed in his seat, and George felt a warmth inside, the kind that came with being able to calm down your crush with only a few sentences.

“Well,” Lafayette began slowly, picking his words with the utmost care, “In France we have much longer time periods to eat lunch. It seems almost like the entire country stops from noon to two in order to have a midday meal.” Lafayette chuckled to himself. “It was so strange, coming to America where you only have so much time to eat lunch. How did you have time to eat a full meal? Of course, I understood when I realized that most Americans view of ‘lunch’ is a snack and a drink eaten over paperwork.”

George let out a small laugh. “Sometimes I feel the same way,” he agreed. When he saw Lafayette’s confusion, he continued, “I grew up on a farm in Virginia. We grew most of our own food, so eating was an important thing in our house. I still feel guilty sometimes when I have to scarf down a quick lunch.”

Lafayette, his mouth full of turkey and tomatoes, looked as if he had been blessed by this small tidbit of information given to him by the President. “It must have been so much fun, growing up on a farm,” he gushed.

“It was a lot of work,” George admitted. “Get up early, feed the animals, collect eggs and milk cows - and when you finish with whatever schoolwork you have, there’s always farmwork waiting.”

Lafayette hummed in acknowledgement. “When I was younger, I thought that living on a farm would be so exciting,” he sighed, “but I suppose those are just the thoughts of a young, silly boy.”

“Well, it was exciting, sometimes. I remember that we used to take the horses and race them across the fallow fields. Falling off a horse was how I knocked one of my teeth out,” George reminisced.

Lafayette let out an undignified snort, but covered his mouth with his hand as soon as it had escaped. “I apologize,” he said when he had composed himself. “That was very rude. It’s not funny.”

“Oh, it’s kind of funny,” George confirmed. “I didn’t notice it had fallen out at first because I had a mouth full of dirt. My brother Lawrence said that he liked me best when I shut up for once.” 

At this, Lafayette’s face threatened to break into a smile.

“I only noticed the tooth when it fell out when I was yelling at him.”

When Lafayette finally relinquished himself to grinning widely, Washington’s breath caught in his throat. When the the Marquis’ mouth turned up in that way, the edges of his eyes crinkled and his smile seemed to swallow up all the darkness in the room, only leaving space for light and laughter. George was completely convinced that Lafayette’s smile was the most beautiful thing that he had ever seen in person, and as President, he had the privilege to witness many of the wonders the world had to offer.

None of them compared to the ear-to-ear, sunny smile of Marquis de Lafayette.

George Washington, being the idiot that he was, decided to tell him that.

“You have a beautiful smile,” he murmured, his voice barely loud enough to be heard. He could practically feel himself mooning.

Lafayette was caught off guard, his eyes going wide and his whole body tensing, not for the first time that day. His cheeks darkened delicately and he focused on his sandwich so that he wouldn’t have to look the President in the eye. “Thank you,” he murmured, not quite sure what else he could say.

George picked up on the Marquis’ discomfort and realized his mistake. He screamed internally, appalled at how stupid he was for saying that. He tried his best to remedy the situation.

“So,” he said, clearing his throat and tightening his grip on his sandwich, “France. You were telling me about the food and culture?” George was desperate to change the subject and steer the conversation back into more relaxed, more platonic waters. That one slip could have cost him his entire relationship with Lafayette, and, though the relationship was only still budding, he would have never forgiven himself.

“ _Oui_ ,” Lafayette affirmed quietly. He picked back up on the differences between France and America, and Washington listened, enraptured, as Lafayette continued to compare and contrast French and American eating habits. If he was being truthful, Washington would admit that he purposefully ate his sandwich slower so that he could keep listening to Lafayette talk. He also would have said that he found that speaking Lafayette directly was better than just watching a video. In fact, he wasn’t sure if he would be able to watch his videos with the same enjoyment after being a witness to Lafayette’s smile in person.

Unfortunately, all good things must come to an end. Washington was taking the last bite of his sandwich just as Lafayette gave up on sipping the last few drops of his soda from his cup. The Frenchman had nothing more to say on food, and Washington was beginning to remember the pile of paperwork that waited for him back at the Oval Office. Still, he felt confident in his ability to ask Lafayette out to lunch again.

As the two cleared off their table, George made his move.

“We should do this again sometime,” George offered, doing his best to sound relaxed and casual, like a friend asking another friend to hang out later. Lafayette did not see it that way. He hesitated for a moment, unsure, until George continued, “It was nice to talk to someone about something other than politics. You’re a good conversationalist.”

That seemed to overcome Lafayette’s insecurities. His mouth widened in a grin and he nodded enthusiastically, saying, “Yes. It would be wonderful to share another meal with you.”

The two men agreed to meet again at the same restaurant in two days’ time. As Washington stepped into his car, he felt that if everything went as smoothly as it had today, then he would be able to realistically start a relationship.

But nothing ever works out how we want them to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I CAN'T BELIEVE I HAVEN'T TOLD YOU THIS YET: come yell at me on tumblr at sweetest-garlic.tumblr.com
> 
> See you on Monday!


	6. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woo! Chapter five!

The President’s lunches with Lafayette became a regular occurrence for the White House staff. Washington’s personal secretary no longer asked if they should fetch lunch for the President, and instead learned to arrange the President’s schedule around his hour-long lunch break. They even emailed Lafayette’s boss to inform her that the Marquis de Lafayette would be given a longer lunch break for reasons that could not yet be disclosed.

Marquis de Lafayette, however, was not quite sure what to do with the favoritism the President was offering. He had thought about making a video about how he was becoming better friends with his boss and how that impacted his professional relationships, but he decided against it. He did tell his friends, however. He was nervous that they would hold jealous grudges against him; he had a direct connection to the President for unknown reasons. Thankfully, they were intrigued by it, but didn’t seem to be jealous.

“So, you’re just casually having lunch with the President?” Alexander had asked incredulously when Lafayette told him what had been happening.

Lafayette nodded sheepishly in response.

“Bro! Dude. Dude. Oh my god, dude, you could like… get him to do shit for you. Like, just be like ‘Yo, G-Wash, can you do me a solid?’ And he'd be like, ‘Sure, fam, whaddya need?’ You could get him to like, pass laws and shit,” John insisted, his eyes lighting up with the possibilities.

Sometimes, Lafayette wondered if he should be taking advantage of his strange new friendship. George Washington was among the most powerful people in America, and Lafayette held an audience with him almost every day. There were some people who would kill to be in the position Lafayette was in, and Lafayette was only ever using his time with the President to share idle conversation. He supposed he could have tried to change the President’s political views, could have manipulated him into becoming Lafayette’s puppet, but the Frenchman found that he didn’t care enough to try. He was so preoccupied with trying to understand the strange new relationship that the President had dumped on him that he didn’t think of the power he could have.

“Sir,” Lafayette started one day while sitting down at lunch with Washington. Earlier, he had been going on about his friend’s strange obsession with turtles, but there had been a companionable silence where Lafayette had decided to bring up the subject of his and the President’s strange relationship.

“Sir, I have accompanied you to eat lunch for a few weeks now,” Lafayette began again, hyperaware of George Washington’s eyes on him, “and, though I have found our time together enjoyable, I have to ask…”

“Yes?” Washington prompted Lafayette to continue.

“What is this?” Lafayette asked, enunciating his words slowly, delicately, as if saying them more carefully would make them easier to answer.

Washington cocked a brow, but his expression soon turned into one that was more concerned. “What do you mean?” he questioned, his eyes full of worried care.

Lafayette exhaled nervously. “I mean, why are we friends? Are we friends? What kind of friendship would this be?” he asked, trying to specify the question that he had. Washington obviously didn’t understand his meaning. Lafayette sighed again. “What are we doing?” he asked.

Washington raised his brows at him. “Eating lunch…?” he replied, not quite sure if he was giving the Frenchman the answer he was looking for.

“But why? Why are we eating lunch together? What is this for?” Lafayette pressed.

The confusion did not leave Washington’s face. “Because I enjoy your company and want eat lunch with you,” Washington replied. “You’re an interesting person,” he said, “and I like our conversations.”

Lafayette didn’t believe him, and it showed on his face.

“What, you think I’m lying?” Washington asked incredulously. “Why is it so hard to understand that I like your company?”

“Because you’re the President!” Lafayette exclaimed loudly, causing a few restaurant-goers to turn in their seats. Realizing his mistake, Lafayette repeated himself quietly. “Because you’re the President!”

Washington looked disappointed, to say the least. “Just because I’m the President doesn’t mean I don’t like people,” he reassured Lafayette. “I like you. You’re a nice person with an interesting life. Anyone would like you.”

Lafayette was shocked. As a child, he had not been so popular; he was passionate about things that he liked, so much so that the other children had made fun of him. Teasing was such a constant that Lafayette eventually couldn’t take it anymore; he hid away everything that he liked and did his best never to express his opinion about anything. It had worked for a while, until he became a teenager. Then, liking things was cool, and having something you were passionate about meant that you had a career that you could pursue. Lafayette did his best to slip back into his old excitable, passionate self, but was stopped by the tricky little subject of gender. Though Lafayette loved makeup and clothes and traditionally feminine things, he found that being lumped in with the girls simply made him uncomfortable. While others praised him for his soft jaw and delicately rounded chest, he sometimes felt like his body was a prison that he couldn’t break free of.

His first day of presenting like a boy seemed like a fresh hell. People still called him Marie, he was sent to the principal’s office because a teacher thought he was pulling a prank, and Lafayette himself felt decidedly un-Lafayette-like dressed in the grey t-shirt and khaki shorts that seemed to be uniform for most of the boys at his school. The bandages he used to bind his breasts made his chest ache, and he could practically feel himself breaking out from stress.

Eventually, Lafayette got people to call him by his surname and some of the teachers grouped him with the boys (even though they didn’t quite understand it). He learned how to bind correctly, and accepted that his love of traditionally feminine things didn’t make him any less of a boy.

Even so, it seemed that sometimes his best friend Adrienne was the only person who treated Lafayette the way he wanted to be treated. Lafayette loved Adrienne more than anyone in the world. They tried dating, but then Lafayette discovered he was gay; they broke up, but Lafayette and Adrienne were still the unstoppable team they had always been. If anything, they were closer, more like sister and brother than just friends.

When he finally began college in America, Lafayette formed a gallant trio with two other boys, John Laurens and Hercules Mulligan. After the three graduated, they found Alexander Hamilton and the Schuyler siblings, and Lafayette began his Youtube channel as the Marquis. Youtube gave Lafayette the freedom to tell the story of his trans experience, and was also a creative outlet. He built up a small fanbase that was incredibly positive and showed their support by raising enough money to help Lafayette continue with his transition.

Thanks to his support system and his own growing self-confidence, Lafayette was slowly learning that he was okay the way he was, that he was okay as a gay, effeminate, trans Frenchman who had a special love for the country of America.

Still, he hadn’t made a new friend in a while.

And now, George Washington was saying that he liked his company and that he wanted them to be friends and eat lunch together and have conversations and _be friends._

Lafayette couldn’t believe it.

The Frenchman could feel himself tearing up as he choked out, “Sir, I don’t know what to say.”

Washington, obviously, was not expecting this emotional reaction. His eyes widened and he stammered, “It- It’s okay! You don’t have to cry! Oh, no, you don’t have to cry, don’t cry.” He was not the kind of person who dealt with tears well.

Lafayette hurriedly wiped the wetness from his eyes. “I, I apologize, sir,” he gasped, a smile making its way onto his face, “I am just so complimented by your opinion of me.” The Frenchman beamed at the man across from him, hoping to convey his joy and excitement through a single expression.

George was, as usual, caught off-guard by Lafayette’s brilliant smile. He fumbled with his words as he tried to shrug off his kindness. “It is not so big of a deal, I just like you - as a friend, of course! You’re an interesting person, and- and- um,” George muttered, feeling his cheeks burn red as he avoided Lafayette’s eyes. He waited for the Frenchman to start laughing at him.

Lafayette did laugh, but it wasn’t unkind. It seemed more like he was laughing _with_ George rather than laughing _at_ him. When George glanced up, he found Lafayette looking at him with open fondness, his lips turned up in a smile and the edges of his eyes crinkling in a way that would one day result in laugh lines. George’s heart skipped a beat, and if his face wasn’t already bright red it would have colored more. Lafayette’s smile was easily the most beautiful smile he had ever seen; the most beautiful anything he had ever seen.

George _almost_ said “I love you.”

Almost.

“Monsieur, you’re staring,” Lafayette commented, his wide smile turning into a grin that hinted at the Frenchman’s vanity.

George straightened up and tugged at his collar, turning his attention to anywhere but Lafayette. He heard the Frenchman laugh again, and he gave a mumbled apology.

“No, no, it is alright!” Lafayette insisted, leaning forward to place a hand on George’s wrist. “As you said, we are friends! And friends do things other than just sit around eating lunch.”

“They do?”

Lafayette laughed again, wide and open and _friendly_. “Of course they do!” he insisted. “I have a group of friends that I go out for drinks with every Friday.” The Frenchman gasped and said, “You should join us! If you don’t have anything else to do, that is.”

George didn’t have anything else to do.

“Wonderful!” Lafayette exclaimed when he was informed of this fact. “Alright, so here’s the location,” Lafayette said as he scribbled down an address on a napkin. “And just show up around 8-ish. You’ll be able to find me.”

Washington nodded as he wrapped up the last of his trash, taking the napkin from Lafayette. Both men stood to throw away their garbage, and Lafayette smiled at George one last time before sauntering out the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GOTTA LOVE THAT BACKSTORY. See y'all on Thursday!


	7. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter six! Aka, the chapter where it becomes very obvious that George has No Friends™. Again, apologies for putting this up late. I might just have to pay you guys back with another update on Saturday... *wink wink nudge nudge*
> 
> Enjoy!

George tugged at the collar of his shirt, itching at the nervous sweat that had gathered on his neck. He had chosen to wear a button-down shirt and slacks in the attempt of creating a sort of business-casual vibe; it had been so long since he had actually worn a t-shirt and jeans in the company of other people. As President, after work drinks were difficult to come by - they were almost as hard to find as friends were.

Washington’s body guards were positioned around the bar, but Washington had to wait as a single guard scanned the area one last time. He glanced at the man next to him - Tallmadge was his name, if Washington remembered correctly. For a moment, Washington felt the urge to ask for the man’s opinion on his clothing choice, but missed his chance as the other guard reemerged from inside the bar. She nodded at Tallmadge.

“All clear,” she reported.

“Thank you, Strong,” Washington said as he passed by her into the building.

The bar was lit by warm ambient lights, and George had to scan the tightly-packed crowds in order to find Lafayette. For a moment, he felt a sinking ball of shame and disappointment at the thought that Lafayette hadn’t been able to show up or, worse, had lied to him about the meeting, but then a voice came from a corner of the bar.

“George!” Lafayette called, waving at him, “Over here!”

Washington muscled his way through the throng of people towards the waiting Frenchman. When he finally emerged from the crowd to the table, he found himself the subject of five pairs of eyes. They stared at him openly, and George stood in the naked embarrassment of being studied until one man spoke up.

“Jesus Christ,” the man breathed, “You weren’t lying.”

“Of course not! Now - come here, sit down - I would like you all to meet George!” Lafayette said brightly, pulling George into a chair. The other four people at the table were still staring at George in open shock, and George stared right back. He recognized a few of them.

“Hello,” George said, sounding more confident than he felt. “I believe I’ve already met the two of you,” he nodded at Alexander Hamilton and John Laurens, “but I’m not sure who you two are. My name is George Washington.”

The first to recover was a woman that George didn’t recognize, wearing a blue blouse. “I’m Eliza Schuyler,” she introduced herself with a sweet smile, holding out her hand for George to shake. He did, and smiled a bit as he mentally noted her firm grip and straightforward introduction.

Alexander Hamilton and a man George didn’t recognize both started talking at the same time. While Hamilton went on a tangent of “Holy _shit_ Laf, you were serious, you invited the fucking _President_ , what the fuck?!?” the other man began saying how nice it was to meet George and introduced himself as Hercules.

While Eliza and Lafayette sat waiting for the two to quiet down, Laurens began laughing at Alexander ranting in his face. In the midst of such loud, boisterous activity, George wasn’t quite sure what to do.

“Well,” he finally said, the sound of his voice effectively silencing all three men, “This seems like a fun group.”

Music was playing over the animated conversations around them, but a noticeably uncomfortable silence had fallen over the table. George was aware of his status as an outsider; it felt like his first cabinet meeting all over again. Every instinct was screaming at him to either leave the bar or say _something_ , anything to break the silence, but he sat quietly, owning his own awkwardness. He offered a tiny smile to the people around the table, doing his best to be as friendly as possible in an effort to encourage conversation.

Alexander leaned forward, his eyes alight with interest and his lips turned up in a pleased grin; he looked like a child ready to unwrap a Christmas present. Washington had already experienced the man’s talkative nature, and it was clear to him that curiosity was definitely a large part of Alexander Hamilton’s personality.

“So, Mr. Washington, how did you come to meet our good French friend?” Alexander asked, emphasizing on George’s name. George raised one brow slightly, but refrained from commenting on the stressed phrase.

“We eat lunch together sometimes,” answered Lafayette, giving his friends a wide smile as he bumped shoulders with George. George felt his face heating up slightly at the contact and couldn’t help himself from grinning stupidly at the Frenchman.

Alexander didn’t notice the President’s expression, and instead nodded. “That cheap sub place down on L Street? I hear they’re so cheap, it’s amazing.” he remarked, to the distaste of John Laurens.

“Cheap or not, they make disgusting sandwiches!” Laurens said.

Alexander gasped. “John Laurens! Budget always trumps quality!”

“I don’t know, Alex, you should really be eating better,” Eliza cut in, giving Alexander a concerned look. The man in question shrugged.

“Okay, so Alex literally can’t take care of himself, John has no idea what budgeting is, and Eliza is reasserting herself as the mom friend, but have you all forgotten that the fucking President of the United States is _sitting at our table?_ ” Hercules said, effectively interrupting the others as he gestured towards George, who raised an eyebrow at the man’s word choice. He quickly lowered it as the eyes at the table turned back on him.

“Hercules is right,” Eliza said, then gave George a warm smile. “So, George, tell us about yourself.”

The President huffed out a laugh at her overly friendly demeanor after meeting her somewhat crass friends. “Not sure what to tell you, to be honest,” he chuckled, “because I’m not sure what you already know. That’s the thing with being President, people generally know a lot about you.”

Hercules gave him a bored expression. “I really don’t follow politics,” he said with a shrug.

Alexander whipped around and gave him a glare. “Society destroyer!” he snapped. “How the hell is the government supposed to work if you don’t vote?”

Hercules raised his hands in defense. “I voted! I just don’t care how many cousins Andrew Jackson has that are in jail. It doesn’t matter to me.”

Alexander threw his hands in the air, yelling, “You need to _know_ these things!” Lafayette laid a calming hand on his shoulder as he folded his arms across his chest, pouting and glaring at the Frenchman for his efforts. Laurens and Eliza only shared knowing look - George guessed that they were used to their friend’s outbursts.

Just then, a server in a yellow and black uniform came up to their table. Seemingly unbothered by the diners, they leaned against their table and gave George a long look that intimidated him more than a little bit.

“Can I… help you?” George asked hesitantly, confused as to why this young person was inspecting him so deeply, and why the others didn’t seem to have a problem with their behavior.

They ignored the President’s question and instead turned Lafayette. “I guess you weren’t lying,” they said, nodding their head slowly. Lafayette returned the gesture and gave them a cocky smile. “Peggy,” they introduced themself shortly, “They/them.” George nodded, trying to look as normal as he could.

“Remember, Pegs, that means you’re buying drinks tonight,” Alexander cut in, his voice dripping with an annoying amount of pride. Peggy gave him a glare that would have sent any normal man into tears, but Alexander smirked right through it.

“What do you want?” Peggy finally asked, swinging to face George and tapping their pen on the pad of paper they carried.

“Ah - I’ll just have a beer. Whatever you recommend,” George said, hastily deciding to trust the person’s judgement on beer flavors.

The others ordered their drinks - two Sam Adams’, a glass of wine, a Pepsi, and a cocktail - and a basket of onion rings. Peggy scurried off to fetch their food as George turned and asked Lafayette a question.

“They’re buying drinks?” he inquired under his breath.

Lafayette, who had leaned closer to hear him, nodded and grinned slightly. “They’re Eliza’s sibling,” he replied, obviously not realizing how close he had gotten to George. The President felt his face heat up, and he was only saved by Alexander jokingly scolding them for talking about Eliza behind her back, _jeez_ guys, don’t be so rude!

Lafayette chuckled and shot back, “You're not exactly averse to gossip, _mon ami_. Shall I remind you of the Adams disaster?”

Obviously, the Adams disaster was an embarrassing encounter, as Alexander’s face turned beet red and his face twisted into a deep scowl.

Curious, George asked, “What was the Adams disaster?”

Laurens snorted loudly. “Hammy here didn’t agree with one of the speakers at our college class and ended up writing a rant about him that went viral.”

“Who was the speaker?” asked George, a suspicious smile growing on his face.

John Laurens gave George a deadpan look. “John Adams. The Vice President.”

George’s smile broke out to stretch across his face as he turned to Hamilton. “You ranted about John? Why?”

“Because he’s an asshole!” Alexander snapped, slapping his hands on the table. “His logic makes no sense and when you point it out to him he gets all defensive and acts like you’re attacking him! He’s fucking paranoid and he acts like he’s the greatest thing since sliced bread and he’s dumber than a half eaten peanut butter sandwich!”

At this point, George was in stitches; he knew that his Vice President had a lot of “haters,” as the kids called them, but the fact that the friend of his crush had written and published a rant on the man was somehow hilarious. “He’s not that bad of a guy,” George insisted between gasps of air.

“Yes he is! Come on, be honest, that guy has an ego bigger than the national debt,” Hamilton argued.

George had to agree, but he felt the need to defend his friend. “He’s good at giving advice,” George said. “A bit bitter,” he admitted, “but I wouldn’t be where I am today without him.” He glanced at Lafayette, recalling his conversation with Adams about having more confidence around the Frenchman.

“I’m sure he’s very nice once you get to know him,” Eliza piped up, offering George a smile and Alexander a disapproving frown. Alexander chose to ignore her in favor of welcoming the drinks to the table.

“The nectar of the gods has arrived!” Laurens crowed as Hercules chanted, “Shots! Shots! Shots! Shots!”

“Shut up Herc, you ordered Pepsi.”

“Unlike you, I’m a responsible adult.”

“ _Mon ami_ , the other day you set your oven on fire.”

“I’m a tailor, not a chef, dammit!”

“How did you set your oven on fire this time?”

“Well…”

George nursed his beer as Hercules told the story of his flammable kitchenware and the table around him was consumed in lively conversation. The beer was a tad too sweet for his tastes, but it was cold and frothy and refreshing. Not only that, George was aware of Lafayette leaning close to him as he sipped his wine and smiled his sunshine smile. George was captured by the image of Lafayette’s lips stained slightly with red wine and the way the Frenchman’s mouth fit around the glass. His eyes, too, sparkled with glee, and the dim light of the bar was caught on Lafayette’s high cheekbones.

Lafayette wasn’t dressed in white robes and holy light, but he was the closest thing to an angel George had ever seen.

George didn’t even really try to hide his staring, but at one point Lafayette nudged him and turned when Laurens had told a joke to see if he had laughed. George let out a chuckle and took a sip of his drink, trying his best to act casual. The others at the table didn’t seem to mind - the President always had been a quiet public figure - but Lafayette was suspicious.

As conversation continued, Lafayette leaned in close to Washington and murmured in his ear, “Are you alright?”

Washington, caught off guard, leaned back to give Lafayette a surprised look. “Of course I’m alright,” he said, “Why would you think I’m not?”

“You have been quiet this whole evening, _mon ami_ ,” Lafayette said quietly, placing his hand over Washington’s. “I worry.”

Washington smiled through the blush that was threatening to take over his face. “I’m just a quiet person,” he assured his friend. “It’s nothing to worry over, Lafayette - I would tell you if something was wrong.”

“Are you sure? I - my friends are okay, right?” Lafayette asked anxiously.

Washington huffed a laugh. “You’re friends are fine - they’re wonderful. I like all of them. And I like you. Everything is good, I promise.” George felt like he was comforting a lover - he wished it could be so.

Lafayette didn’t seem completely satisfied, but after a moment, he gave George a small smile and squeezed his hand. “Alright,” he sighed. “But I need more wine anyways.”

“Wine and beer!” Alexander shouted, holding up his empty glass.

The cry was echoed around the table and the sullen Peggy came over and took their glasses to refill them with a pouty glare. Lafayette giggled and nudged George’s shoulder and that was when George realized - the Frenchman had never let go of his hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hmu on tumblr at sweetest-garlic.tumblr.com AND check out my ~new~ art blog at sweetest-doodle.tumblr.com!
> 
> And a cookie to whoever gets that last reference to another musical...


	8. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SURPRISE
> 
> Warning: there's some trans/homophobia and self-loathing in this chapter. There is use of the slur "f*g," and there is dysphoria. If you don't like reading that stuff, know that the last 500 words or so are really the most important plot development in this chapter, so you can skip to the end. Stay safe!

Gilbert du Motier de Lafayette, Marquis de Lafayette came from a rich family. He grew up in idyllic southern France and was never short of money; he could have bought anything he wanted, and the acres of wild land his family owned was his to explore. True, his father died when he was very young and his mother wasn’t around often, but his grandmother loved him very much and he went to a world-renowned boarding school with his best friend, Adrienne. In short, Gilbert had no small amount of privileges growing up.

That didn’t mean that he was the helpless rich kid who threw a tantrum at every problem. Over the years, Gilbert had transitioned from female to male, come out as gay, and moved across the ocean to a different country. He was used to facing difficult situations and working through them to success.

This, though, would be nearly impossible.

It was the classic setup--man meets President, man runs into President at run-down sandwich shop, man falls hopelessly in love with President… Okay, maybe not that classic. But it was an accurate summary of events, nonetheless. Gilbert du Motier de Lafayette had received the brilliant luck to develop a crush on the President of the United States. Some would say it’s just his not-so-hidden Yankophile shining through, but Lafayette was convinced it was something more. He didn’t have a crush on George Washington just because he was the President - in fact, the whole “President” thing had made Lafayette hesitant to befriend George in the first place. No, Lafayette had developed his silly crush because George was quiet, but he told good jokes when he wanted to, and he was a good listener, and he was a no-nonsense problem solver, and Lafayette could tell that the man was _ripped_ under the suits he wore -

“Ugghhhh,” groaned Alexander Hamilton, who was victim to Lafayette’s romantic ramblings. “Dude, I’m not gonna judge you for falling in love with your boss, but falling in love with the _President?_ He’s not even your boss! He’s not even your boss’s boss! He’s your boss’s boss’s boss’s boss’s boss! Maybe more! Even if he wasn’t, he’s the President for Christ’s sake!”

Lafayette pouted. “So what if he’s the President? He’s single, isn’t he?”

Alexander shook his head. “Laf, even if he wasn’t the President, he’s probably straight as an arrow. He was married to a woman, and if he had any sort of interest in men, it probably would’ve been pulled up by the press during his campaign. And if he wasn’t straight, and if by some miracle you managed to start dating, he would literally be torn apart by homophobes across the country. Hate to be blunt, but it’s not going to happen.”

“You never hate to be blunt,” Lafayette grumbled into the pillow he was hugging to his chest.

He knew that Alexander was right. George Washington was an untouchable man, and there was nothing Lafayette could do to even consider the possibility of getting a date with him. Lafayette pushed his face deeper into the pillow, hiding the tears in his eyes from his friend. Alexander recognized what was happening and respectfully left the room to let Lafayette cry in peace.

And cry Lafayette did. He turned onto his side and curled around the pillow he was holding, letting the tears leak out onto the cotton. At the same time the pillow comforted him, it made him cry harder because he knew that one, he would never be able to hold Washington to his chest like he was holding the pillow, and two, it was kind of pathetic for an adult to cry into their pillow over a crush.

Lafayette had expected an outburst of tears and then a small sniffling end where he would bring out his laptop and cry over some Netflix. Instead, the tears kept coming, and with them, the internalized transphobia and homophobia that had built up for years and never been addressed.

 _Of course he would never date you,_ Lafayette’s mind told him, _No one would ever want to date you. Why would they? Fucking fag. Unnatural. Sick._

Lafayette moaned into his pillow, his shoulders shaking and chest aching with the force of his sobbing. No one would ever love him. He would die alone. Sick. Unnatural. Alone. And well deserved.

Along with the feelings of self-hate came, of course, dysphoria. Lafayette was conscious of the width of his hips, of how soft and delicate his hands and feet were. He bit his knuckle, a sort of retribution for his own body’s existence.

After a long bout of self-hate and dysphoria, Lafayette rolled on his back, his chest still heaving but his eyes dry, having run out of tears a long time ago. Lafayette didn’t want to have to go out and talk to Alex, but he knew that lying in his bed with nothing to do would only lead to more tears. So he did what he did best - he made a video.

Lafayette grabbed the empty cup next to his bed and, blanket wrapped around his shoulders, padded to the bathroom to fill it with water. When he made it back to his room, he set up his camera on the nightstand and curled up on his bed in a nest of pillows and blankets. He pressed the record button and sat back.

“Hello again everyone. I’m back and…” Lafayette glanced away from the camera, his voice cracking, “Today’s video will be a little different.” He smiled a bit - today’s video would be much different from what his viewers were used to, but he needed to get this off his chest.

“I think you can tell, already, my setup is different, and my eyes are probably red and puffy because… crying. Happened. It happened. And, and, it happens to all of us, and,” Lafayette trailed off, feeling his throat close and a sob grow in his chest. He felt pathetic. “And,” he picked up where he left off, “I’ll have to edit this part out.”

Lafayette dropped his head into one hand. “God, what am I doing?” he groaned. Pathetic, pathetic, pathetic. “I’m making a video,” he affirmed himself, “and I’ll edit all this out later.”

“Okay,” he restarted, “I’m going to talk today about… feelings. And feelings of love, and romance, and how to deal with all of it. Okay? Okay. Here we go. I’m going to talk over my cup of water, because hydration is important, but I’m going to talk.

“So. I am…” He wasn’t in love. “I have a crush on my boss. And not just my boss, but my boss’s boss. My ‘boss’s boss’s boss’s boss’s boss,’ to quote my roommate,” Lafayette chuckled. “But, I have a crush on him, and, obviously, that’s not okay. I cannot have a crush on him, because he’s in charge of me, we are supposed to have a professional relationship, and because he’s straight. He is. I wish he wasn’t, but he is. And he’s straight, and I love him, and anxiety and dysphoria have this great little trick to make you feel like the person you like doesn’t like you because you’re horrible and ugly and not worthy of being loved.

“But I want to tell you,” Lafayette said, straight to the camera, “I want to tell you that you are worthy of love. You are so worthy of love, whoever you are, and I love you so much. You deserve love and care and friends and you deserve a romantic partner. Even though you can’t date your boss, you deserve a romantic partner.”

Lafayette could feel his throat closing and his eyes watering again. This video wasn’t for any watchers - it was for him, so he could hear the words out of his own mouth.

“You deserve love,” Lafayette whispered, tears making tracks down his face as he let the words sink in. He deserved love, but he still felt like he didn’t deserve George’s love.

Lafayette took a calming sip of his water, then shifted over to stop the recording. He picked up the video camera and stared at the little screen, at his own face staring back at him from the thumbnail of the file.

_Delete file?_

Lafayette pressed a button.

_Okay._

Lafayette laid back in his nest of pillows, letting out a long sigh. His head ached after the tears he had shed earlier and his face was uncomfortably wet. The fact that his ponytail was tugging at his scalp didn’t help the matter; Lafayette reached back to pull the hair tie out of his curls. The pink band seemed out of place while he was in such a dark mood, but he supposed it was a good sign as any to get him up and out of bed.

Lafayette draped his softest blanket around his shoulders and, struggling momentarily to grab his water cup, made his way to the living room where Alexander lounged on the couch with a computer on his lap. For a moment, Lafayette said nothing and instead stood at the door to his room in contemplative silence. Alexander didn’t look up and instead focused on his laptop, probably editing some essay or another.

“Bonjour, mon ami,” Lafayette mumbled when he was ready to speak. Alexander glanced up and immediately set his laptop aside and focused on his friend.

“Laf? Est ce que tu vas bien?” _Laf? Are you okay?_ Alexander’s face was filled with concern, his eyebrows furrowing as he leaned forward. In response, Lafayette shrugged and shuffled to the couch next to Alex.

“Je ne suis pas... a dévasté. Mais je ne suis pas d'accord,” Lafayette sighed, his head lolling back against the couch. _I am not… devastated. But I am not okay._

There was a long silence before Alexander spoke again. “Serez-vous d'accord?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper. _Will you be okay?_

Lafayette’s lips barely quirked with a melancholy smile when this question was asked. His friend cared deeply for him, and that caring almost offset the lack of close caring he received from George. And, wonderfully, Alex wasn’t his only friend - Hercules, John, Eliza, Angelica, Aaron Burr (if you squinted), and Adrienne back in France. His friends would get him through this, but Lafayette wanted something more.

“I will be good,” he murmured in accented English, “I’m just upset… for obvious reasons.”

Alex nodded, not saying anything.

“And maybe I am being silly, no? It is just a silly crush, and I am overreacting. Perhaps I should just get over it,” Lafayette grumbled, feeling his own self-consciousness rise up in a flood. He let it out in a long sigh, the heavy emotions pressing out the air in his lungs.

“Hey,” Alexander whispered, “It’s not silly. You’re not silly. People feel weird things when they get crushes. Maybe it would help if you - I don’t know, maybe go out on a date with somebody else? Just to get George out of your head.”

Lafayette turned the thought over in his head before sitting up straight. “You’re right,” he said slowly. “Maybe I should go out on a date. One-night stand, as you say here in America, yes? But who would I go with? There must be somebody I know - who would be good for a date?” Lafayette turned to Alex and pushed all thoughts of George out of his mind. He was going on a date with someone _else_ , someone _available_ and _sweet_ and _not his boss._

Alex chuckled and leaned back into the arm of the couch, pulling his computer back onto his lap. “I dunno, man. You know your own tastes better than I do.”

“Maybe with that Thomas in the Agricultural Department,” Lafayette mused.

Alexander let out a long, loud groan. “Thomas Jefferson? Please don’t say you want to try and get a date with that pretentious asshole!” he complained.

Lafayette smirked at his friend’s annoyance, then let that quirk grow into a true smile. “He can’t be that bad,” Lafayette said.

“He is that bad! God, he’s rich and stuck up and he has that stupid smile and his - have you seen his suits? Bright fucking purple! Who does that?” Alexander yelled.

“He speaks French,” Lafayette offered.

Alexander sighed. “Laf, I speak French.”

“Yes, but you’re head-over-heels for John Laurens,” Lafayette smirked.

Alexander blushed, his cheeks turning bright red. “I’m not head-over-heels for him,” he muttered, but it was half-hearted; he already knew he was fucked.

Lafayette knew it, too, and chuckled at his friend’s denial. “Well, _mon ami_ , then we’ll both have to get dates. And I’m going on my date with Thomas Jefferson,” he said to his friend, and got up to go back to his room.

“Nooo!” Alexander called after him, then turning huffily back to his laptop.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Forgive me for the French - it was a combination of Google Translate and a Candian friend, haha.
> 
> Come talk to me on tumblr at [sweetest-garlic](sweetest-garlic.tumblr.com) or look at my art blog at [sweetest-doodle](sweetest-doodle).
> 
> I will still be updating on Monday! This was just somethin' special for you guys who are always so sweet! I really appreciate your comments, and they mean a lot to me. Thank you!


	9. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 8! And thank you again to all you sweet people who continue to comment, I am so happy that all of you enjoy this fic!

Monday mornings were rarely an exciting event for any office worker. They were the inevitable ending to the weekend, the harbinger of another week of labor, early risings, and coffee that was more flavored water than the rich drink so often advertised. Nobody looked forwards to Mondays, unless they really loved their job - or maybe just the cute intern that they got to eat lunch with.

Since finally meeting the Marquis in person and getting to eat lunch with him, George Washington found his job, and therefore his Mondays, much more enjoyable. Sure, he still had complicated decisions to make and he still usually went to his bed with a headache, but his thoughts seemed clearer and his headaches weaker. If George were starring in an infomercial, he would also happily claim that Lafayette was helping his hair grow back, whitening his teeth, and clearing his skin.

Even so, George knew deep down that his friendship with Lafayette could never be enough. Eating sandwiches together was a pleasant way to spend the lunch hour, but they had never seen each other outside of work except for the drinks they had shared last week in a crowded bar surrounded by people. They would likely never have a romantic aspect in their relationship, and even as their friendship built George up, it also destroyed him. He would always long to hold Lafayette, always long to tell him his feelings, always wish and pine and hope against hope that a romantic relationship would work out.

It could never be enough, but it had to be enough for now. It was better than nothing.

It was surprising enough that Lafayette would want to even be friends with him, beyond the fact that he was the President. For one, George was much older than Lafayette. George was 41, and Lafayette was barely 30 - only 29 years old. More than 10 years of difference, and yet the two still carried on conversations easily, as if they had gone to highschool together. There were, obviously, some generational differences the two had trouble getting past, but those only enhanced the conversation.

Even without his age in the mix, Washington had never considered himself to be a terribly interesting person. He liked baseball, but agriculture was his passion, and he didn’t like to share his war stories - the world was violent enough without people bragging about near-death experiences, he thought - and the job that he had really enjoyed was surveying land. You didn’t get many stories from surveying land, unless you were talking to somebody else who surveyed land. Needless to say, Lafayette did not survey land.

Still, Lafayette laughed at George’s bad jokes, and he at least pretended to be interested in what George talked about. George didn’t have to pretend to laugh at Gilbert’s jokes - the man was hilarious, and somehow brilliant at such a young age. George always looked forward to their lunches, and today was no exception.

The day was cloudy, but George decided to walk to the sandwich shop anyways. He didn’t see Lafayette on the way there, nor was the Frenchman in the shop when he arrived. It was likely that the man had simply taken another route, or had left work later than George did. Still, George felt a shiver of apprehension, as if someone had just walked over his grave. Lafayette was a smart man, and George knew he was fine, but there was obviously _something_ wrong.

George’s nerves were only calmed when Lafayette burst in the door, five minutes late. George was already sitting down. He perked up in his seat, looking over Lafayette worriedly to see if any harm had come to him. There were no noticeable injuries, and his suit had no suspicious stains, but his cheeks were flushed and his jacket was rumpled.

After he ordered his sandwich, Lafayette noticed George at the back of the store and gave him one of his customary sunshine smiles. George returned the smile, albeit a bit less enthusiastically. His brow was still furrowed with worry as to why Lafayette arrived so late.

Before Lafayette had even sat down, he started talking.

“Forgive me, _mon ami_ , I was distracted today and did not see the time,” Lafayette apologized hastily, then continued speaking before George had the chance to say anything. “I basically ran here so that I would not miss our lunch! But there has been something, how you say, preying on my mind, yes?”

Lafayette looked expectantly at George, as if George could think of an answer to the words Lafayette had offered him. Before responding, George noticed Lafayette’s glances to the side and the way his fingers tapped almost nervously on the table and the hand he cupped to his neck in an attempt to act casual.

“Are you alright?” George asked, leaning away from his friend.

Lafayette let out a sigh almost relievedly, as if he had been waiting for George to ask that very question. “Well, you see, I have taken on what I think is an almost impossible task,” he lamented dramatically. 

George tried to smile in understanding, and said, “I did that, too, once, and now I’m President because of it.” He reached forward to lay a gentle hand on Lafayette’s wrist, but the Frenchman pulled away, drawing both hands under the table.

“Well, it’s nothing as serious as becoming President… It’s nothing, really. Ah, forget I said anything,” Lafayette said, hiding his embarrassed blush, accompanying the phrase with a wave of his hand.

The furrow in George’s brow deepened. “Lafayette,” he said in the voice he used to soothe skittish dogs, “I am your friend, whether you believe it or not. I am here to help you with your problems. Now, what’s wrong?”

For a moment, Lafayette gave George a pained look. It seemed as if the Frenchman was staring into George’s deeper being with his soft, soulful eyes, and George felt his breath catch silently. Then the moment was gone, and Lafayette was glancing away, the soul searching look replaced with one of coy shyness. This expression was just as beautiful as the last - full lips turned up just slightly, rosy blush darkened brown cheeks, feathery eyelashes fanned over chocolate irises.

“You know Thomas Jefferson, _oui_?” Lafayette asked, his voice lowered and flavored with a giddy giggle.

George raised his eyebrows, nodding slowly and trying to look interested. He knew Thomas Jefferson, and wasn’t too fond of the man - Jefferson thought Washington was a senile monarch with no sense of independence, and he was too frivolous for Washington’s tastes, anyways.

“Well,” whispered Lafayette, leaning in close as if sharing a secret, “I was thinking I could ask him on a date.”

George’s world shattered.

“George? George, that is alright, yes?” Lafayette sat back in his seat, his eyes guarded and his smile dropping almost immediately. He looked offended and hurt, but his expression didn’t register with George. The man was lost in the unique sensation of having his heart ripped brutally out of his chest.

Lafayette looked away from George. “I see how it is,” he whispered. George didn’t realize what Lafayette was doing until the Frenchman started wrapping up his sandwich.

“Wait, Lafayette,” George protested, trying to get Lafayette to stay.

“ _Non,_ ” Lafayette said with a quiet air of disappointment and disapproval, “I will not stay. I know you’re uncomfortable with me.”

“Uncomfortable? Lafayette, why would I be uncomfortable with you?” George asked, genuinely confused.

“Because I’m gay,” Lafayette snapped. George could hear Lafayette’s throat tighten around the words. Lafayette had never officially told him that he was gay, and didn’t realize that George already knew.

“Lafayette, no, I’m not uncomfortable with that-” George attempted.

“Then what are you uncomfortable with, George?” Lafayette asked, glaring daggers at him.

George was taken aback by Lafayette’s venomous tone. “It’s just… Jefferson?” George offered, trying his best to redeem himself.

“What about Jefferson?” Lafayette asked as he wiped the wetness from his eyes.

“Jefferson is flashy and loud and brash. I never thought you would show interest in him,” George said. He put his hand flat out on the table in a peace offering. “Lafayette, there is absolutely nothing wrong with you being gay.”

Lafayette sat back down in his chair, but his expression was still guarded, and he still didn’t look George in the face. He eyed the President’s hand warily. “Are you sure?” he asked, his voice small.

George smiled. “I would never judge you on something like that. And if someone else does, just tell them to bring it up with the President,” he said.

The corners of Lafayette’s lips twitched. The chair creaked slightly as he leaned back, setting down his sandwich but still not taking George’s hand. He looked down at his lunch guiltily and murmured, “I apologize for being so upset. It is just… hard, sometimes.”

George shook his head. “You don’t need to be sorry,” he assured his friend. “And… I know,” he added quietly, almost like an afterthought. He was aware of Lafayette glancing up at him, but the Frenchman did not bring up the subject.

Silence hung over them for another minute, George’s hand still extended on the table and Lafayette still slumped in his chair, not taking it.

Finally, George sat back, retracting his hand and sighing heavily.

“So… Thomas,” Lafayette said, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Thomas,” George repeated as he met Lafayette’s eyes. Their eye contact was less of a battle and more of a mutual apology. “Maybe we shouldn’t talk about Thomas?” George offered with the tiniest grin on his face.

Lafayette broke into one of his sunshine smiles as he shrugged. “I think he’s charming. Confident. Capable,” he said.

George shook his head. “Maybe? I don’t know, he’s always rubbed me the wrong way.”

“Well, he’s rubbing me in a very right way,” Lafayette joked, wiggling his eyebrows.

George let out a laugh, an honest-to-god chuckle. Pretty good for the storm of emotions he was feeling inside.

“I don’t need to know about your sex life,” he informed Lafayette.

“It is not my sex life! ...yet.”

The banter continued on in much the same way for the rest of the lunch hour, and the two left feeling more confident in their friendship. Lafayette felt at ease knowing that George was not going to let his sexuality get in the way of their relationship, and George felt destroyed knowing that their relationship would only ever be platonic. Beforehand, George could dream and wish and hope that it would somehow come about, but now that Lafayette was actually getting a date and possibly a boyfriend, George would be cut off even if Lafayette didn’t find his feelings strange and undesirable.

Things had been going so well. Going out for drinks had probably been the most enjoyable social outing of George’s life since he had become President. The people he had met had been welcoming, inclusive, and George felt comfortable as a witness to their conversation. The simple fact that Lafayette had tried to introduce George to his friend group was a huge step - now they were less independent facets in each others lives, and more friends working towards becoming involved in each other’s lives.

George knew he should be happy for Lafayette, but he couldn’t bear to see him dating Thomas Jefferson. To hear him talk excitedly about the man during their lunches, to watch the boyfriend tags and the mentions of Thomas in videos - even just hearing Lafayette refer to the man as “Thomas” was unsettling, to say the least. What was even worse was how perfect Jefferson was for Lafayette - the man shared Lafayette’s hunger for knowledge, he adored French culture, and he wasn’t Lafayette’s boss. Jefferson and Lafayette were both adventurers, and George knew that someday, they would travel the world together. George was eager to explore the backwoods of the country he loved, but he would never have Lafayette’s appreciation for the culture found in big cities. He also barely knew a lick of French - Jefferson was fluent in the French language. Putting aside his flamboyant nature, Jefferson was ten times a better partner for Lafayette.

George would always just be a friend. And for now, that would have to be enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hmu on tumblr at [sweetest-garlic](sweetest-garlic.tumblr.com) and see my art at [sweetest-doodle](sweetest-doodle.tumblr.com).


	10. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I know nothing about how to pair wine. Or anything about French literature. Just go with it.

“And a glass of chardonnay for the lovely gentleman across from me.”

Thomas Jefferson gave the waitress a winning smile as she finished writing their order, then turned that same smile onto Lafayette. The luxurious darkness of the restaurant was broken only by the candles on the tables and a few mounted high on the walls, but Thomas seemed to glow in a way all his own.

“Chardonnay goes wonderfully with vegetarian dishes,” said Thomas, as if Lafayette was the kind of person to be impressed by wine knowledge. He wasn’t, but he smiled politely anyways.

“This is very fancy for a first date,” Lafayette said as he looked away coyly and toyed with the single red rose that Thomas had brought to the dinner. He couldn’t pin down the strange feeling in his stomach. Normally, he would chalk it up to shyness, but something was… off.

“What can I say? I like treating people to a nice dinner,” Thomas chuckled. He leaned forward, and his fingers brushed against Lafayette’s.

Lafayette pulled away from the touch sharper than intended. George had touched his hand like that before. Monday, at lunch, and at the bar last weekend…

No. That was George. Lafayette looked up and smiled at the man across the table from him. This is Thomas, and Lafayette didn’t want to fuck up his chances with him.

An awkward chuckle left the Frenchman’s lips. “Apologies,” he said. “I am so nervous to be here with you.”

Thomas’ wary expression was replaced with one of easy confidence, the kind one gets when they know that they are in power in the conversation. He leaned back in his seat and gave Lafayette a wide, lazy smile.

“Aw, well now,” drawled Thomas, lathering on his southern accent, “I’m nothing to be afraid of. I’m here to give you a good time, sweetheart, and that’s nothing scary.”

Lafayette knew that he was right. It was just a date - just Thomas and Lafayette sharing a fancy dinner together, the kind of high-class romantic meal that people used to impress their partner all the time. Sauteed squash and chardonnay for Lafayette, duck and pinot noir for Thomas. This was the kind of date most people would be ecstatic to go on. Still, Lafayette felt like he had arrived to the wrong reservation.

Lafayette found himself comparing Thomas to his friends. He certainly had strong opinions, like Alex, but, unlike Alex, had the discretion to refrain from talking endlessly. His concerns for social justice were not nearly as strong as Laurens’ were, and he didn’t have as many interesting stories as Hercules. George was right about his love for flamboyance, and Lafayette could tell why George wasn’t fond of him.

Thomas did have the tendency to brag, and his suit was just barely on the right side of atrociously colorful. He liked to talk about his accomplishments and his deep knowledge of French culture. Lafayette didn’t have the heart to tell him that having someone lecture about a culture you grew up in is more than a little annoying.

Still, he was the kind of person needed in his life. Loud in both volume and fashion sense, impossible to ignore, over-confident, almost bossy. Lafayette needed someone with Thomas’ colorful personality and wardrobe to pull him out of the khaki-shaded funk that he had gotten himself into.

“So, you’re an intern?” Thomas asked. It was an obvious attempt to start a conversation that Lafayette would be more involved in, but the Frenchman refused to take the bait.

“Let’s not talk about work,” Lafayette sighed, “Too much stress. This is supposed to be a relaxing evening, yes?” Lafayette knew that he was just being difficult, but something held him back from enjoying himself. Still, he felt kind of bad for not actually conversing with Thomas; just because he wasn’t enjoying the evening didn’t mean Thomas couldn’t.

“So I know you are interested in French culture. You must be acquainted with the literature?” Lafayette asked.

Thomas started talking immediately. “Of course - no culture is complete without a fair share of poets and novelists! One of my favorites is _L'Étranger_ , but I must confess a love for-”

“Thomas.”

Thomas stopped abruptly at Lafayette’s interruption, an expression of offended surprise on his face. The man talked with his hands, and those hands were frozen in the air as Lafayette gave a gentle, albeit a bit forced, smile.

“It was a yes or no question, _mon couer_.” The pet name sounded wrong applied to Thomas Jefferson. “What I’m really interested in is what your favorite genre of literature is.”

Thomas blinked. “Oh.”

“Yes, oh,” Lafayette mocked slightly.

“Well,” Thomas started, looking a bit put off by the question, “I’ve always been fond of the classics - Homer, Euripides, Isocrates - but sometimes I indulge myself in the riches of history.” He gave Lafayette a proud little smile at the end of that, as if calling history an indulgence somehow made him better than the casual reader.

“I love history! Especially American history,” Lafayette said, “but my indulgence is actually young adult novels.” He blushed a bit when saying the last part - he knew that it was nothing to be ashamed of, but most people thought of him as less intelligent for it. Thomas Jefferson looked mildly disgusted by the fact.

“Why?” the Virginian asked in confused horror.

“They just seem so much more limitless! There is more freedom to have a story just to be a story, no strings attached,” Lafayette explained.

“So like… a book one-night stand?” Jefferson asked with the same tone still in his voice.

Lafayette laughed at both his facial expression and his verbal expression. “Yes. Very much like a one-night stand, in a way,” he chuckled. His easy smile must have soothed Thomas’ fears, because he returned with an unsure quirk of his lips.

“So, we have different tastes in literature,” Lafayette said, stating the obvious.

“Hopefully my taste in food will be similar to yours, because dinner is just about to arrive,” Thomas said, pointing out the waiter walking straight towards them.

“Duck breast and raspberry sauce,” said the waiter as he laid down Thomas’ dish, “and sauteed squash pasta.”

Lafayette could see Thomas drinking in his meal with his eyes, appraising every aspect of the food and judging it before even picking up his fork; it was actually somewhat endearing. George only ever dug into his sandwiches, but-

Lafayette slapped all thought of George from his mind and instead turned his attention to his own meal. The squash was still fresh and yellow and the pasta looked like it had been specially arranged to form a spiral shape.

“This looks delicious,” Lafayette said, smiling at Thomas. Truth be told, he had been a bit nervous when Thomas had taken it upon himself to order for him, but it seemed like the vegetarian pasta meal wasn’t actually that bad of a choice.

Thomas hummed in agreement. “The duck looks divine. But how does it taste?”

Lafayette twirled the pasta and stabbed a bit of squash on the end of his fork; it was a bit more food than he could actually fit in his mouth, and he let out a muffled laugh when the sauce dribbled on the side of his mouth. In a moment of undeniable sexual tension, Thomas leaned forward to wipe the sauce off of Lafayette’s chin. He then licked his thumb, maintaining eye contact the whole time. Lafayette knew that it was something of a cheap move, a bit of a cliche, but his cheeks still darkened as he chewed on his pasta.

When he had swallowed, Thomas arched one brow and said flatly, “The sauce tastes good.”

Lafayette laughed, partly at himself and partly at Thomas’ apathetic phrasing after the obvious attempt at seduction.

“The sauce does taste good. So does the pasta, and the squash, and the wine. Thomas, you’ve picked out an amazing dinner,” Lafayette admitted truthfully.

Thomas made a face. “I don’t know about the wine. Not dry enough. I think that a 2007 -”

“The wine pairs well enough,” Lafayette interrupted him. Thomas gave a noncommittal shrug and took a bite of the duck.

As Thomas took his time in tasting his dinner, Lafayette reflected on how the date had gone so far. Yes, Thomas had been a bit pushy, and yes, he was more than a bit flamboyant, but this was good for Lafayette. Right?

Before Lafayette had the chance to really consider the question, Thomas began talking about his meal.

“The duck is a bit overdone, but it’s still juicy. I’m glad they elected to take out the raspberry seeds. That would’ve been a mess. I thought that the sauce would be sour, seeing as it’s still a month until raspberry season, but it’s turned out as a sweet compliment to the savory of the duck. I’m pleasantly surprised. And the bitterness of the arugula adds something special, I believe,” he rambled. Taking a sip of his wine, he concluded, “And this wine pairs nicely.”

Lafayette smiled at Thomas’ expert appraisal of the dinner, and didn’t let that smile falter for the rest of the meal. When the two men were satisfied with their food, Thomas leaned back slightly in his chair and looked Lafayette over thoughtfully. After a moment of silence, he spoke.

“I never told you that you look beautiful tonight,” he said, his voice deeper than it had been before. His eyes looked darker and richer, too, and Lafayette felt a tiny shiver in him at the sight of the smile Thomas gave him. “Do you want dessert?” the Virginian asked with a tilt of his head.

Lafayette rubbed his thumb on his lower lip, a coy smile on his face. When he looked up, he had a shit-eating grin to match the one that had grown on Thomas’ face. “It depends what we’re having,” he said, the sound of his smile evident in his voice.

“Why don’t we go to my place and find out?” Thomas suggested, calling over the waiter for the bill.

The bill was paid. The restaurant was departed from. The car was driven. And finally, Thomas Jefferson and Gilbert du Motier de Lafayette arrived at Jefferson’s D.C. home.

The house was large and luxurious, per Jefferson’s style. Lafayette made sure to make a polite comment about the decor and Jefferson offered to show him a painting in his room. It was a lie. While Lafayette did see the painting, he didn’t really have time to analyze it before Jefferson was on him. There was a mouth on his mouth, then a tongue in his mouth, then Jefferson’s lips and teeth and hands on his everywhere. Lafayette drank in the sight of a shirtless politician for the first time in his life and he was definitely not disappointed. Jefferson was muscular, handsome, adept at dirty talk, and had a really nice dick. 

“Are you cool with vaginal? Or what’s gonna happen here?” Thomas commented casually when he had gotten into Lafayette’s pants.

Lafayette told him that vaginal was preferably avoided, nipples didn’t do much for him, and he was very okay with having a dick in his ass. Thomas obliged with all of those beautifully. Lafayette was extremely grateful.

All in all, Thomas Jefferson was skilled with sex. Lafayette knew that sex on the first date was a bit unorthodox, but he was on a first date for an unorthodox reason. Was this even a first date? Lafayette asked himself. Would he go on more dates with Thomas Jefferson, or was this just going to be a one-night stand? Did he care enough about Jefferson to go on multiple dates with him? Did he even reach his main objective: getting over George Washington?

Lafayette didn’t know the answer to the last one, but he knew when Thomas asked him to stay the night in that deliciously deep voice of his that yes, this was going to happen again. Whether it would be a date or just more sex was not yet decided.

The next morning, they agreed on a date at an upscale bar next Friday.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not the last time Laf is going to have sex with a politician if you get my drift *winks*
> 
> Come yell at me on tumblr at [sweetest-garlic](sweetest-garlic.tumblr.com) or on my art blog at [sweetest-doodle](sweetest-doodle.tumblr.com).


	11. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SORRY FRIENDS it's the week before finals and I'm not really thinking about fanfiction right now - forgive me! I hope that you enjoy this (late) chapter!

It seemed like everyone knew about Lafayette and Thomas’ date. Alexander asked if Lafayette had come to his senses yet and was spectacularly disappointed when Lafayette responded, “He’s a good conversationalist and the sex was close to fantastic.” Hercules gave Laf a good-natured punch on the shoulder that may or may not have left a bruise when he learned that his friend had gotten laid. Eliza was beyond pleased when Lafayette told her it had gone well and Angelica had raised an approving eyebrow. John clapped him on the back, Peggy had shaken their head in tired confusion about why romance was a thing, and even Aaron Burr nodded. They were happy for him.

Now to tell George.

Lafayette wasn’t even sure if he wanted to tell George. Yes, George had become a close friend in a short time, but he had reacted strangely when Lafayette told him about the date. He had insisted that it wasn’t homophobia, but Lafayette knew for a fact that internalized homophobia was a bitch to get over. And if it wasn’t homophobia, then it was Washington disliking Jefferson, and that was almost worse. Alexander didn’t like Jefferson out of political opinion and the arguments that sprung from that; George didn’t like Jefferson because he thought he was a legitimately annoying person. As much as Lafayette wanted to get over George, he still valued his opinion.

Getting over George was the other part of the problem. Lafayette could easily say to his friends that he had enjoyed a wonderful evening and fantastic sex with Thomas Jefferson, but saying it to George would be difficult for many reasons. One, even saying “I had fantastic sex” around the President of the United States was weird. It was. Second, Lafayette could lie as much as he wanted to his friends, saying that Thomas might possibly be a relationship choice and that it was the best date he could hope for, but saying it to George would be nearly impossible. Lafayette would be forced to face the fact that, in fact, the date wasn’t all that good. Not because the food was bad or the conversation was boring, but because across from Lafayette had sat Thomas Jefferson and not George Washington.

Now George was sitting across from him. But not at a date.

“So, how did the Jefferson date go?” George asked when he first sat down.

Lafayette chuckled and turned away in embarrassment, a smile on his face. While he dreaded this conversation, the look in George’s eyes when he was being genuinely interested in what was going on in _Lafayette’s_ life and what _Lafayette_ was doing on the weekends made joy flutter in his chest. Lafayette forced himself to make eye contact while George dug into his sandwich.

“It went well,” he said truthfully. “I really, really, enjoyed it.” That was a lie.

George covered his mouth with his hand. “Are you going on another date?” he asked through a mouthful of lettuce.

Lafayette chuckled and looked away so as not to give away the pain that he knew would be evident in his eyes. “Yes. We’re going out for drinks on Friday.”

Lafayette didn’t see it, but George’s smile was becoming forced and his eyebrows wrinkling together. This was the worst news. If this went on for much longer, Lafayette and Thomas would officially become A Thing and then would come the boyfriend tags and cute workplace glances and a marriage and-

George’s panicked thoughts were interrupted by Lafayette’s next words. 

“It was a fancy restaurant,” Lafayette remarked. He wasn’t smiling so much as staring into space. “He picked the food, which I originally thought was a mistake, but it turned out well. He also paid. I wouldn’t have been able to afford that place anyways.” Lafayette’s eyes slid to George’s and fixed him with his gaze. “We had amazing sex.”

George almost choked on his drink.

Lafayette’s sunshine smile lit up and he laughed aloud as George wiped the soda off of his white shirt and red face. The President glared slightly at Lafayette, who only giggled again.

“I thought I told you last week I didn’t want details on your sex life,” George growled. He wasn’t actually angry—both he and Lafayette knew that—but he had to keep up appearances. He was, however, slightly disappointed to know that Lafayette had sex with Thomas Jefferson, had been touched, had _enjoyed it_ —

George cut off his thoughts before they got too possessive.

There was silence as Lafayette handed another napkin to George—not that it was needed. Just a courtesy. For a moment, Lafayette had the wild notion to do what Thomas had done to him: drag his thumb along George’s chin to press against his lips, then bring that thumb to his own lips where he would lick the soda off. Oh, to seduce George Washington. What a wonderful thought that Lafayette would have to entertain later, because now was not the time for uncomfortable arousal.

After George was pleased with his clothing, Lafayette gave a wicked smile and a small shrug. “Thomas was interesting. Gentlemanly. A good fuck.” Glare. “It’s nice we’re going out again.”

“Is there a spark there, do you think?” George asked, catching Lafayette off-guard.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, do you think that there’s a chance for a relationship there?”

Lafayette knew that he looked like a deer in the headlights. He knew that his eyes were wide, his mouth was slightly open, and his eyebrows were lifted in a sad little frown. He knew it, and looked away from George in a failed attempt to hide it. He searched his brain. Could there be a possible relationship there? He knew in his brain that yes, Thomas was fun and interesting and polite, but every beat of his heart was a resounding _No, no, no, no, no_.

He closed his eyes to gather himself, then gave George a fake smile. “It’s a bit too early to tell that, yes? I say give it some time,” he forced out.

Lafayette could tell from George’s face that the man was not pleased. He knew that George disliked Thomas.

“Well, it seems like the date went well. How about drinks tonight at the bar from last time? I know it’s a Monday, but drinks are how you and your friends celebrate, isn't it? Bring everyone along! It’ll be fun,” George said.

Fun. Sure.

They all agreed to meet at the bar at 7:00 for a few baskets of onion rings and drinks. It was a Monday night, so a crowded restaurant wasn’t a worry, nor was parking. Hercules had some doubts about drinks on a weeknight, though; “Sure you guys can handle hangovers tomorrow?” he had asked. John answered with a hearty clap on the back. “I think we can handle two or three Sam Adams,” John chuckled.

While John would regret that statement in the morning, George Washington was very deeply regretting his choices now. He had taken it a step too far in trying to look happy for Lafayette, and now his most of his evening would be centered around his crush dating a man that George hated. This would not be a nice evening.

“To Laferson!” John yelled, throwing his head back and holding his drink up. The others repeated the toast and clinked their own glasses.

“Laferson?” George asked Peggy, who was obviously not working when they should have been.

“A couple's’ name. You know, take their names, mash ‘em together. That’s like, the name for the two of them as a couple. Rather than saying ‘Lafayette and Jefferson’ you say ‘Laferson,’ ” they informed him quietly. They gave George a long look before saying, “You don’t know much about dating, do you?”

George gave them a side glance before smiling apologetically and admitting, “I don’t date much.”

Peggy scoffed. “I’m aromantic. I don’t date at all, but at least I know about couple things,” they said, their mouth set in its normal pout. A long moment passed where neither President nor server spoke, then Peggy said, “You should date.”

George looked at them, surprised that they would say something like that, but they had already engaged themself in conversation with Hercules.

George spoke to nobody, turning Peggy’s words over in his mind. Start dating again? But he was the President. He didn’t have any free time, and the free time that he did have was used to spend time with Lafayette. George didn’t want to date anyone but Lafayette, but he couldn’t date Lafayette, so dating anyone other that Lafayette was a useless endeavor. But maybe Lafayette was the reason why dating wasn’t as useless as it sounded? Maybe getting a cute date and a good dinner was exactly what he needed to stop mooning over the Frenchman.

Twenty minutes later, George had still not said a word and his thoughts were well fermented. Alexander, who had been listening to John talk and maybe doing a bit of mooning himself, noticed the President’s expression and decided to investigate.

“Sir?” he asked quietly, trying not to attract attention from the others as he nudged George with his elbow. George stared out of his thoughts and looked around momentarily, as if he had forgotten where he was. Finally he noticed Alexander and let out a breathless little, “Yes?”

Alexander raised his eyebrows. “You were zoning out, man. Just wanted to check up on you,” he said. “You okay?”

George didn’t answer right away. Instead, he threw a troubled glance paired with the sigh of a worried parent towards Lafayette. When he looked back at Alexander, he admitted, “I’m a bit worried.” Alexander only raised his eyebrows more. “Lafayette’s a wonderful person, and Thomas Jefferson is just not… as… wonderful. He’s off. It doesn’t add up.” Alexander only looked more confused. “Thomas and Lafayette dating makes no sense. I mean, it does make sense, but not in a good way.” Understanding had not been reached. “Look, I like Lafayette-”

At that, Alexander’s eyes lit up. “Ohhhh,” he said, a wicked grin growing on his face. “That’s why you’re upset. Because you wish you were dating Laf!” Alexander’s voice had gotten louder, and Lafayette turned his head at the mention of his name.

“What was that?” he asked, brow furrowing.

“George Washington’s in love with you,” Alexander replied promptly.

“ _Alex_!” George snapped. He glared at Alexander giggling on the bar stool and missed the expression of rapturous joy that had momentarily taken over Lafayette’s face. When he did turn to Lafayette, that expression had been controlled into one of entertained shock.

“Alex is kidding,” he said, forcing out a chuckle in the hopes to fool the Frenchman. Lafayette nodded along, but Alexander cackled, “I don’t know, Tommy J better watch out! He’s got a silver fox on his tail.”

Peggy gave Alexander a pained look while Hercules started guffawing over “Tommy J.” Alexander basked in the attention, but George and Lafayette were removed from the loud group around them. The two’s eyes met, neither of them speaking aloud but both still saying volumes with their eyes. Quickly, they turned away from each other. The words were there, but they refused to read them.

Afterwards, when the rest of the group had made their ways to their rides home, George and Lafayette were left standing alone together in the slightly chilled air. The silence was the comfortable kind of silence shared together on starry nights or while taking a long walk on the beach.

George felt the sudden need to fill it with words.

“You know, Alex was just… making a joke back there,” he said suddenly.

“Of course,” Lafayette affirmed, “a joke.”

“Right. I would never date you,” George chuckled awkwardly. “You’re a man, I’m straight, it doesn’t work out.”

“ _Oui, oui_. I mean, it’s not gay if it’s a threesome, but…” Lafayette said. It was a bad attempt, but George took the bait with a raised eyebrow.

“Are you inviting me to something, Marquis?” he asked, deepening his voice intentionally so that it came out as a low rumble.

And _oh_ if that voice did things to Lafayette. He rushed to hide his blushing face by turning his face away, laughing loudly, swatting George’s chest with one hand. He held onto George’s arm loosely and George smiled down at him, laughing and pleased and just a little bit in love.

If somebody saw them, they would say that it was flirting.

It was a relief when Lafayette got back to his and Alex’s shared apartment. As expected, Alex was sitting typing away at his keyboard. He didn’t look up when Lafayette entered, but he did speak.

“You should’ve gotten a ride with John and I,” he said, fingers never faltering.

Lafayette chuckled, not looking at Alex either. “I needed to give you some time alone with your lover boy, didn’t I?” he asked flatly.

That made Alex look up. His fingers were still for a moment before clattering back onto the keys as he said, “And I had to give you some time with yours.”

Lafayette glanced over his shoulder at Alex. His face was lined with tiredness, his eyes deep set and lifeless. The look didn’t phase Alex, who shrugged and simply said, “Silver fox.”

Lafayette went straight to bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, come find me on tumblr at [sweetest-garlic](sweetest-garlic.tumblr.com) and [sweetest-doodle](sweetest-doodle.tumblr.com).


	12. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HERE YOU GO a bit late in the day because dead week •^• SAVE ME
> 
> There is heavy drinking in this chapter, so be warned.

A Friday evening after dinners with political statesmen from around America always left George wanting a plush couch, no shoes, and a strong drink, and this night was no exception.

Thankfully, his private quarters supplied all of those things. Most of the couches in the White House were stiff and uncomfortable, the kind of old-fashioned furniture that fit with the grand decor in the House. When Washington had realized that the decor extended even to his private quarters, he had the vintage sofa donated to a thrift store and a new, comfortable couch brought in. He picked it especially because it reminded him of the couch he had in college, sans the questionable stains.

Washington kicked off his shoes as soon as he walked in the bedroom door and threw his jacket on a chair. The couch was a welcoming haven, but he needed to grab something before he sat down: a bottle of his best bourbon and a glass. George eyed the dark, heavy clouds that had begun to collect outside his window, then sat heavily on the couch. There would be a storm tonight, no doubt about it, but George didn’t think about it. He just allowed himself to sink into the cushions and close his eyes to the world.

George was planning on getting wasted tonight.

It wasn’t the draining dinners or the long day he had that drove him to drink, though a lesser man would certainly find those to be acceptable excuses. No, he was drinking because of what he wasn’t doing that night... and what a certain Frenchman was doing. George did his best to keep his thoughts about Lafayette as platonic as possible, and tried to smother the jealousy he felt when he remembered that Lafayette had feelings for another man. Still, the knowledge that Lafayette was currently on a date didn’t make it easy, and the storm clouds outside continued to brew.

George groaned and sat up, placing the bottle on the table with a loud thud. He stared at the amber liquid, deep in thought. Drinking would do nothing for his troubles later, but it would make him feel better now. Sort of. Not really. George was an angry drunk, but letting out his emotions might be just what he needs right now. Hopefully he would blow himself out with the storm; the bottle would be empty, and his mind would be empty of Lafayette.

George grabbed his glass and got up to put some ice in it; he might have just been drinking to get drunk, but hell if he didn’t enjoy some good bourbon while he was at it. Just as he sat down again, his cell phone dinged with a text notification. He almost didn’t answer it, but thought better of it and checked his phone.

_1 message_

George opened his texts and saw a short message from Lafayette there.

_George comeg et me_

The President’s brow furrowed. Lafayette was supposed to be on a date with Thomas right now. Did something happen? Was he hurt? Had something gone wrong? A million questions ran through his head, but he kept his cool and responded to the text.

_Lafayette, what’s going on?_

A moment of silence, then a single text.

_Im at the yortkown bar downtown come pls_

George read and reread the message. “Yortkown bar” probably meant “Yorktown Bar”... it was where Lafayette and Thomas were supposed to have their date. “I’m at the Yorktown Bar downtown, come please”? George frowned. Why? Why was he needed? He almost didn’t bother getting up, but he would never forgive himself if something bad happened and he wasn’t there to help.

George informed his bodyguards, Tallmadge and Brewster, that he needed to be at the Yorktown bar quickly. Brewster raised a questioning eyebrow, but quickly lowered it when both George and Tallmadge glared at him. The slamming door sounded like a gunshot in the silent night as the men got in the car, Tallmadge taking the driver’s seat and Brewster happily claiming shotgun while George sat in the back.

Heavy droplets of rain began to fall, slapping the car’s window as George attempted to calm himself. Nothing too bad could have happened - he would have been alerted if it was really serious - but he still tapped his foot impatiently as Tallmadge drove excruciatingly slowly. _Drive faster!_ he wanted to yell, but the car was going as fast as possible without breaking the speed limit.

The rain had picked up by the time the three men arrived at the Yorktown Bar. Puddles began to form on the sidewalk as people hurried past, turning up their collars as they tried to get shelter from the storm that was only just beginning.

“Wait out here,” Tallmadge instructed before he slipped inside the bar to check if it was safe. In the two minutes he spent scoping out the restaurant, it had begun to pour down rain. The President and his bodyguard were forced to huddle under the awning of the bar. George was bouncing on the balls of his feet, desperate both to get out of the rain and to find Lafayette, and hurried inside when Tallmadge finally came out to declare the bar all-clear.

The bar was classy, like most of the restaurants downtown. Lots of dark wood mixed with stainless steel and abstract paintings - very fashionable. The warmth of the air and the easy conversation was a sharp contrast to the rain that was pounding down outside. The bar was busy, as to be expected on a Friday night, and George scanned the large center room for Lafayette. Try as he might, the Frenchman was nowhere to be seen.

Brewster laid a hand on Washington’s shoulder. “Back there,” he whispered in Washington’s ear, pointing to an open door, “Looks like a second bar. I’ll check it out, you stay here with Tall-boy.”

Washington waited next to Tallmadge with his hands folded, doing his best to seem casual even though suspense twisted his gut. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, Brewster reappeared at the open door and gave a short nod. Washington wanted so much to bolt into the next room and shout for Lafayette, but he kept his pace measured and slow, his hands at his sides.

He saw Lafayette as soon as he stepped into the room. It was quieter here, a smaller bar with only five or six people scattered around. George’s eyes found Lafayette quickly, but Lafayette still didn’t see him. The Frenchman was bent over a glass of some drink, his shoulders hunched and his head hung. Alone.

“Stay here,” he murmured to his guards as he started walking towards Lafayette.

Years of politics and clever diplomacy taught Washington that approaching someone from behind was the worst way to start a conversation; it puts people on edge. Startling Lafayette was the last thing George wanted to do, so he sidled up next to him instead. He didn’t take a seat, but he placed a gentle hand high on Lafayette’s back. The Frenchman started, looking up quickly, but relaxed as soon as he saw who it was next to him.

“Lafayette,” George murmured, almost too quietly to hear. The Frenchman’s shirt was unbuttoned at the top, his sleeves rolled up on his elbows, his lips full and wet from drinking. George could only focus on his eyes. They were red rimmed, exhausted, and made Lafayette look more like a kicked puppy than a man. His cheeks were flushed and George could see the remains of two tear tracks on his face.

Lafayette looked as though he might cry at the sight of his friend. “George,” he whimpered, his eyes shining with tears.

George rubbed Lafayette’s shoulder with one heavy hand. “Lafayette, what happened, where’s Thomas?” he asked worriedly.

Lafayette scoffed and turned back to his drink, his mouth noticeably turning down at the corners. “Who cares where Thomas is?” he asked, then knocked back his drink. When he pulled the glass away from his lips, George could just hear him mutter, “ _Bâtard_.”

George’s hand moved farther up Lafayette’s back to the bend between his shoulder and neck. “What happened?” he asked again. He knew that Lafayette would eventually answer him if he kept asking.

Lafayette choked back a sob. “That fucking _cul_ ,” he swore in French. “Apparently he wants an ‘open relationship.’ ” Another sob. “He’s dating _James Madison_ and they’re trying a fucking open relationship and he didn’t tell me that when we started going out!” Lafayette was openly crying at this point, and George threw a glance at his bodyguards. They stood awkwardly together, not quite sure what to do.

George turned his attention back the crying Frenchman next to him. “Lafayette, I’m sure he didn’t mean to hurt you. It’s okay,” he tried to reassure him.

“No it’s not!” Lafayette shouted, then George shushed him. “No it’s not,” Lafayette repeated in a raspy whisper. “I’m a fucking _side ho_ , George,” he blubbered, then put his head in his hands, his shoulders shaking with quiet tears.

George was panicking inside for so many reasons. One, Lafayette was crying. Two, Lafayette was crying and decided to text him and nobody else. Three, Lafayette wanted nothing to do with Thomas Jefferson and George knew that he shouldn’t be celebrating inwardly.

“You’re not a side ho, Lafayette,” George cooed. He had no idea what a ‘side ho’ was, but it obviously wasn’t a good thing to be so obviously Lafayette was not a side ho. Lafayette was perfect and beautiful and clever and nothing could ever be wrong with him. George’s hand continued massaging the Frenchman’s shoulder.

Lafayette wasn’t completely happy, but he was pacified, and that was the best George could do at that point. Lafayette still nursed his drink, but George casually slipped it out of his hand and pushed it down the bar where the Frenchman couldn’t reach it. Lafayette cried a little bit when he tried to drink but didn’t have a glass, and George just patted his back.

“Alcohol’s a depressant, Lafayette,” he said while Lafayette whined. “Let’s get you home. Come on. Do you have your car with you?”

“ _Non_ ,” Lafayette whimpered.

“No?” George asked, confused. Lafayette sounded like a child who had been caught with their hand in the cookie jar.

“Thomas drove me here,” Lafayette said, the pout on his face evidence that he knew he had fucked up but was too proud to admit it.

George sighed slightly. “Well, I can get you a ride home,” he said.

“No!” Lafayette said. George sighed more than before. “I don’t want to go home,” Lafayette whined.

“Why not?” George asked, as if speaking to a stubborn child. He was exasperated, on the verge of annoyed.

“I don’t want to go home,” Lafayette pleaded. “I don’t want to. I’m too sad.”

George was definitely annoyed now. “Lafayette,” he said, hardening his voice into the assertive tone that had guaranteed discipline in the army, “I need to know your address so I can take you home.”

Lafayette sighed. Then, suddenly sounding heartbreakingly sober, he said, “I don’t want to be alone, George.” He looked up at George, pleading with his eyes.

George passed a hand over his face. This was a mistake. Coming here was a mistake. Listening to Lafayette cry was a mistake. And what he was about to do was definitely, definitely a mistake.

“Alright, Gilbert,” he sighed, using Lafayette’s first name, “Let’s go. I’ll take you to the White House and you can spend some time there, but then I’m taking you home. Okay?”

Lafayette nodded solemnly and then nearly fell over getting out of his stool.

George caught him by the shoulders, pulling him against his chest to hold him up. Lafayette draped one arm around his shoulder and placed another hand on George’s chest, leaning heavily against the man. George could feel his face flushing as Lafayette’s cheek pressed against his shoulder.

“Alright, let’s go,” he grunted, gently nudging Lafayette towards the two guards waiting by the door. They stumbled over, and Tallmadge stepped forwards.

“I can handle him from here,” the bodyguard said crisply, reaching out to receive the drunk Frenchman.

“I can handle him perfectly well,” George huffed, not letting go. Lafayette let out a little hum, then tried to push himself up. The strong shove he gave nearly knocked George off his feet. Tallmadge stepped forwards again, and George grudgingly let him help.

“So… we taking him home?” Brewster questioned, hands clasped.

George grunted as he pulled Lafayette up again. “No,” he sighed. “He’s lonely. He just wants someone to talk to. We’ll take him to the White House - I can try talking sense into him there, and maybe get him to give me his address. Then we can take him home.”

The bodyguards shared a glance, confused. Brewster shrugged and raised his brows in an I don’t know expression and Tallmadge nodded. They couldn’t tell why this man was so high priority, but they also couldn’t ask any questions. All they could do was their job.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *NOTE: Though Lafayette called himself a "side ho," this comment does not reflect actual polyamorous relationships - it is very possible to be a monogamous person in a healthy relationship with someone who is polyamorous! Healthy polyamorous relationships (as are all relationships) are built on trust, communication, and equality. Thomas did not inform Lafeyette of his open relationship, and Lafayette felt upset and betrayed. Please do not confuse side ho culture with polyamory!
> 
> Also, next week is finals week and I will be taking tests from Monday to Thursday, so please forgive me if I post any chapters a bit late!
> 
> As always, come join me on tumblr at [sweetest-garlic](sweetest-garlic.tumblr.com) or at [sweetest-doodle](sweetest-doodle.tumblr.com).


	13. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IT CONTINUES
> 
> Thank you to everyone who wished me a good luck on my finals this week! You are so sweet and supportive and I'm so lucky to be able to share this story with you and get that response!

The rain had only become more intense when they got Lafayette into the White House and then to George’s private quarters. Halfway from the bar, George had realized that carrying a drunk Frenchman to his rooms at eleven at night was more than a bit suspicious and probably not the best thing for his public reputation. Still, besides a confused glance from a janitor, Lafayette was transported safely onto the plush couch in George’s room.

“You know I don’t like bodyguards in my room, so you have free reign of the house while I’m talking with him,” George informed his men at the door while Lafayette was still hanging his side. Tallmadge nodded and departed, but Brewster hesitated for a moment longer.

After a breath, the man asked, “I know it’s not my place, sir, but… who is he?” Brewster gave a short nod to Lafayette, who seemed to be very interested in the lint on George’s shirt.

George didn’t answer right away, and instead looked down at the drunk Frenchman next to him. His heart skipped a beat when Lafayette met his eyes, but he turned to face Tallmadge again and said, “He’s a good friend.”

Brewster gave a short, understanding nod, then turned to watch Tallmadge disappearing down the hallway. “I think I understand the feeling,” he sighed, then saluted the President and followed Tallmadge.

George stood in the doorway for a moment longer, then helped Lafayette into the room. The Frenchman’s head had cleared slightly on the drive, but he was still far from being sober. His feet dragged on the floor as the two men made their way to the couch. George plopped him on the furniture where he sat silently. A roll of thunder sounded outside as George filled a glass of water.

“That’s brandy,” Lafayette slurred, pointing half-heartedly at the bottle on the table when George sat next to him.

“Actually, it’s bourbon, but it’s not for you. Drink this,” George instructed, handing the water to Lafayette.

Lafayette pulled his feet onto the couch. “Hang on, Gilbert,” George said, reaching for the Frenchman’s feet. Lafayette slouched as he stuck his legs towards George. Careful fingers untied his shoelaces, and he pulled his feet back under himself.

The two men sat in silence together, Lafayette cupping the glass in his hands and George watching his face carefully. After a few minutes, George decided to speak.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

Lafayette gave a short sigh. “No,” he answered, his voice breaking as tears began to pool in his eyes.

George reached out and gripped Lafayette by the shoulder, gently pulling him towards him. Lafayette scooted closer, pressing himself to George’s side as he drank his water through quiet sobs.

George didn’t speak for a while, choosing to just hold Lafayette to his side as the fat tears silently rolled down the man’s cheeks. He let him cry for a few minutes, then began trying to quiet him. Lafayette’s sobs eventually petered out to little hiccups between sips of water.

Finally, George spoke. “I’m sorry Thomas did this to you,” he murmured, his voice low.

Lafayette sighed. “I’m not even upset about that,” he admitted guiltily. “If he’s polyamorous, fine. That is who he is and I won’t stop him. I just wish he’d told me before taking me out to dinner and…” Lafayette’s voice petered out there, but the unsaid words echoed in the room. _And fucked me._ George wanted to stamp out that nasty insinuation, wanted to open a window and rush it out to the cold air as if he were beating a rug.

“It’s not your fault he did that,” he reassured. “I’m sure he didn’t mean to hurt you. Ssh, Lafayette, ssh, I’m here.”

Lafayette pressed his face into George’s side. His shirt smelled so crisp, and he could just make out the light scent of sweat on his clothes. He breathed in and out, a shaky sigh into the silk of George’s shirt.

“I’m disappointed in myself,” he mumbled into the fabric.

“Hm?” George asked. Lafayette could feel the rumbling sound in George’s chest.

“I went on this date to get over someone. And it was supposed to make me feel better, make me forget. But now nothing is cured, and I’m also hung up about Thomas, and now I am here crying drunk.” George’s chest tightened, and he took Lafayette’s delicate hand in one of his own large, calloused ones. He pulled the Frenchman closer in an attempt to say what he couldn’t express with words.

“Drink your water,” he instructed. It was the best he could say right now.

Lafayette took a tiny sip, then another one. He stared into his glass with a furrowed brow and pouted lips.

“George,” he said, his voice level and calm. If George didn’t know better, he would say that the Frenchman was sober.

“Yes, Lafayette?” George responded quietly, brushing a curl out of the man’s face.

“I’m trans,” Lafayette said.

George didn’t even bat an eyelash. “I know, Gilbert,” he replied.

Lafayette nodded, his face still serious. “I just wanted you to know that. It’s important. I…” Lafayette mumbled, squinting his eyes, “I like you a lot.” His words were becoming slurred.

“Why don’t we call Alexander?” George suggested, trying to change the subject before his drunken friend asked him how he felt. “He’ll be able to help you get home.”

“No!” Lafayette cried violently, sitting up quickly and grabbing George’s shirt and nearly spilling his drink in the process. Lafayette stared at George with wild eyes, searching his face. Finally, his gaze rested on George’s neck. “I don’t want Alex to know I failed,” he mumbled as his grip on George’s shirt loosened. Slowly, he moved forward until he was resting on George’s chest, his head tucked under George’s chin.

George was frozen. His crush was currently drunk and emotional, practically sitting in his lap. This was not how he had planned things would go.

“Lafayette,” he protested. “Lafayette, get off.”

Lafayette did not get off. Instead, his hold on George tightened and he mumbled something incomprehensible. When George asked what he had said, he repeated himself. “I don’t want to get off.” He really was acting like a child, but George found it somewhat endearing.

“Lafayette,” he repeated, rubbing the Frenchman’s back soothingly, “You need to get off of me. Come on, baby.” _Baby?_ George Washington had been married for years and he was never the kind of man to use pet names like that. Lafayette really brought out new parts of him.

“Baby, come on, let’s move,” he cooed, gently pressing Lafayette away from him. Lafayette grunted in annoyance, but still moved aside to allow George set the water on the table. When George sat back down, Lafayette’s eyes were still closed. George  
nudged him gently.

It was then that Lafayette gave a sleepy smile, one with his eyes half-open and his mouth quirking up at one corner. It wasn’t the sunny smile that he usually had. It was the kind of smile that one would make at their spouse in the morning, buried under blankets while they offer to make you waffles for breakfast. It was a smile tucked away and reserved for early mornings and lazy afternoons - and drunk evenings, it seemed.

George’s face turned red.

Luckily, Lafayette didn’t see it. His eyes closed sleepily while his mouth remained in that slightly crooked grin, that beautifully loving smile. He hummed when George rubbed one palm on his upper arm and nuzzled his face on the back of George’s hand, his stubble scratching the skin just a bit. He mumbled, “I’m so tired, _mon couer_.”

George cupped the Frenchman’s face in his hand, stroking the stubbly cheek with his thumb. “Do you want me to get you home?” he asked in a soft voice, not wanting to break the delicate quietness that now draped over the two men.

“Mmm… _non_ ,” Lafayette decided, reverting back to French in his tired state.

George nodded slightly, taking in the information. The quiet would have to be broken, unfortunately. With a grunt, he pushed himself up off the couch and stood in front of Lafayette. The Frenchman whined at the loss of George’s hand on his face and pushed his forehead into the couch in protest.

“Come on, baby,” George said, holding out his arms in hopes that Lafayette would stand with his help.

Lafayette did not stand, and instead fixed George with a dejected pout. “ _Non_ ,” he said stiffly, his face making him look even more like a grumpy child.

George sighed, but he couldn’t resist a fond smile. He knew how to deal with situations like these. Without fanfare, he reached one hand under Lafayette’s knees and another behind his back and scooped the Frenchman up, princess-style.

Lafayette squeaked, grabbing onto George with strong hands. He hugged himself to George’s chest, his eyes wide and surprised. George almost laughed at the astonished look that Lafayette gave him as he realized what was happening.

“You can’t carry me,” was his first statement, brows furrowed in indignation. Then reality set in and jaw dropped. “You _are_ carrying me,” he whispered in reverent awe.

George could only nod and try not to laugh. Lafayette was looking around himself in amazed surprise, as if this gave him an entirely new perspective in life. “You’re carrying me,” he said again, hugging his arms around George’s neck. He turned his attention back to George, one hand running down the man’s arm. “You have really strong muscles,” he giggled, a blush painting his face.

George’s blush matched Lafayette’s. “Come on, let’s get you to bed,” he grunted, marching to the bed while Lafayette curled in his arms.

George did his best to set Lafayette down gently on the bed. “Alright baby,” he murmured, “You sleep here tonight, okay?” Lafayette gave a little hum and one last squeeze to George’s biceps before lying back.

“Tuck me in?” Lafayette asked, tilting his head and giving George those irresistible puppy-dog eyes. When George rolled his eyes and started pulling back the blankets, Lafayette squealed with joy. Lafayette lied flat on his back while George arranged the blankets on top of him. “Wait a second!” Lafayette squeaked before George was finished. George held up the covers, confused, while Lafayette sat up quickly. The Frenchman pulled off his jacket, then laid back down. George didn’t move for a moment, then Lafayette smiled wide and said, “Okay, now you can go.”

George tucked the covers around Lafayette while he continued smiling up at him. When he had finished, Lafayette turned on his side and burrowed deeper under the covers, wiggling to nestle in. He stuck up one hand in the air in George’s face.

George raised one eyebrow at the hand until Lafayette instructed, “Kiss my fingers. I’m a prince.”

One kiss later, and Lafayette was comfortably situated in George’s bed. He kept smiling, but closed his eyes in sleepy contentment. 

“Goodnight, Gilbert,” George whispered, gently pulling Lafayette’s hair out of his ponytail. He stroked his fingers through the curly mane, and Lafayette hummed softly.

“ _Merci beaucoup_ ,” Lafayette mumbled, pushing his face into the pillow.

George sighed at the sight of Lafayette’s rich brown skin on the satin white pillow. He was tempted to trace his fingers over Lafayette’s cheekbones one more time, but restrained himself. Instead, he busied himself with getting Lafayette a glass of water, pain meds, and a plain bagel to have the next morning. He even put the trash can next to the bed in case of an emergency. After thinking for a moment, he grabbed a notepad and scratched out a quick letter for Lafayette.

It wasn’t that eloquent, but it worked. He hoped Lafayette wouldn’t hate him for not taking him home, but this was the best he could do right now.

George turned out the lights as he left and closed the door almost silently, looking around for Brewster and Tallmadge. He heard voices in another room and the two men emerged, looking more than a little ruffled. They saw him and immediately straightened up. Tallmadge’s brow furrowed and he hastened towards the President.

“Sir, where’s…?” Tallmadge asked.

George shook his head. “He’s exhausted. Nearly fell asleep on the couch, so I got him in bed. I’ll be sleeping in a guest bedroom tonight,” he informed them.

Both men nodded.

“I hope it’s not too much to ask you two to be here tomorrow to stand guard outside the door? Nothing serious, but if he wants to go home, I want one of you there to drive him. And fill him in if he asks anything. Alright?”

Both men nodded again, Tallmadge a bit reluctantly. For a man who was such a workaholic, he didn’t enjoy mornings.

George lumbered his way down the hallway, somehow exhausted now that Lafayette wasn’t there. He practically fell into bed, only bothering to kick off his shoes. After a moment of stillness, he pulled of his jacket like Lafayette did and threw it on a chair near the bed. He had a lot to think about.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Correct my French if I got anything wrong.
> 
> Come find me on tumblr at [sweetest-garlic](sweetest-garlic.tumblr.com) or [sweetest-doodle](sweetest-doodle.tumblr.com).


	14. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FINALS ARE OVER AND I AM DEAD
> 
> Sorry for one day late! My last test was yesterday and then I had to work backstage for a show so there was A LOT going on, but here you are, my lovelies!

It was a beautiful day. The early spring sun was high in the sky, making the day a bit warmer; the birds were singing; couples were strolling through Washington D.C., delighted to get outside after the stormy weather. The air was crisp and sharp, like eating an ice cube. It was the kind of day one would enjoy with a brisk walk and a cup of something hot in hand.

It was a beautiful day, and Gilbert du Motier de Lafayette was still in bed.

The Frenchman had gotten smashed the night before, mourning the man that he wouldn’t have in the arms of the man that he couldn’t have. His mouth was dry, his eyes were red, and he would have a splitting headache when he finally woke up. The drink had knocked him out cold, though, and he didn’t wake up until it was almost noon.

When he did finally become conscious again, he regretted everything. He regretted going to dinner with Thomas, he regretted having lunch with George, he regretted getting his job, he regretted coming to America, he regretted ever being born. His tongue was heavy in his mouth and tasted like cardboard. It hurt to open his eyes - they were glued shut by dried tears, and the light coming in through the window was blinding. His head felt like it was being slowly cracked open, and his muscles felt weak and achy.

Slowly, because he felt like he would throw up if he moved too quickly, he rolled over and pulled the silk sheets over his eyes… wait.

Lafayette didn’t have silk sheets. He was too poor to afford anything other than cheap cotton bedsheets that he had accidentally spilled instant ramen on the second night he owned them. Silk sheets were beyond what he could afford, yet here he was, buried under them.

Fuck. What if he was at Thomas’? From what he could remember of the decor when he and Thomas slept together, the man was extravagantly rich. Silk sheets were just the kind of thing that he would own. But Lafayette didn’t remember going home with Thomas. He remembered telling Thomas to leave him alone, to get out of the bar, and then hazy memories of drinking more and more and more until he couldn’t recall anything.

_Fuck._ What if Thomas had come back to the bar, picked him up, and brought him back to have drunk sex? Lafayette hastily wriggled himself against the mattress - no discomfort.

So he hadn’t been fucked by Thomas. That was good news. But if Thomas didn’t fuck him, then why would he have brought him back to his house?

Unfortunately, to get real answers, Lafayette would have to open his eyes. He did so slowly, rubbing away the gunk that sat in his lashes. He cracked open his eyes, just staring blankly at the fuzzy images around him. Bit by bit, he opened his eyes until he could see the room he had slept in. Pale green wallpaper, dark wood furniture, one plush couch, a very fancy kitchenette. Too plain to be Thomas, but too expensive to be anyone he knew well.

Lafayette turned his head to the side, ignoring the spinning dizziness, and his eyes alighted on the water and pills.

And the note.

He lifted his head, barely, just enough to tip the water back in his mouth. It was stale from sitting out all night, but still refreshingly sweet enough to somewhat quench his thirst. Then, reaching his hand out blindly, he grabbed the pain medication. Or at least he thought they were pain meds.

…yep. Ibuprofen. He swallowed the medicine with help from a sip of water, then laid his head back in a moment of peace. The pills wouldn’t start working for a little bit, but that didn’t change the fact that he was lying in luxuriously smooth sheets in a room that, if someone chose to rent it, would probably cost more than the rent for his entire apartment.

After a few minutes of debating whether or not to fall asleep again, Lafayette decided to read the note. He snatched the folded piece of paper from the table and began reading it.

_Lafayette,_  
_First off, you’re safe and fine. You’re in the White House. You had a bad date last night and got drunk and texted me. You refused to tell me your address, so I decided to let you sleep here. There’s water and Ibuprofen for you here, and a bagel, if you’re hungry. The door to the right of the bed is the door to my office - if you want to leave, go out the other door. I’ll station Tallmadge or Brewster there to drive you home. If you need to puke, use the trash can._  
_George_

Lafayette read it, then read it again, then read it a third time. He was in George’s home. He was in George’s room. He was in George’s bed.

Lafayette cheeks turned red at the last thought, hastily trying to banish images of George stretched out on silken sheets. The last thing he needed was to be aroused in his crush’s bed.

Even though he had read the note three times, Lafayette read it again. He let his eyes wander across the page, then traced the pen lines with a finger. Sturdy and no-nonsense, just like George. Embarrassing as it was, Lafayette pressed the note to his chest like a schoolgirl getting a note from her crush in class.

Lafayette laid in bed for a little longer, then tried to sit up slowly. The nausea was uncomfortable, but not excruciating. He trusted himself to get up without puking - but he did fall backwards on the bed once. Not so bad.

Lafayette made his way slowly to the door, grabbing his jacket off the back of a chair in the process. His legs and back were stiff, and he did his best to stretch himself out a bit as he walked.

When he reached the door, he paused. George had written that the guard outside the door would drive him home. That meant that he wanted Lafayette out of his home - he wasn’t comfortable with the intern in his private spaces. What if Lafayette had done something stupid the night before? What if he had thrown up on George?

What if he told George everything?

Lafayette felt his breath catch in his throat - now he really felt like he would vomit. What if he told George that he was in love with him and George reacted badly? Was that why George wanted him out? What if George wanted to never see him again? Lafayette’s breath got faster and faster as he began to panic. His stomach jumped and the door opened -

“Hey, I heard you awake in here-” a bearded man said, and Lafayette turned to the nearest trashcan and puked.

Shivering, the sour taste of bile undeniable in his mouth, Lafayette crouched over the trash can. He coughed again, nothing coming out of his throat except for a strangled groan. When he knew he was finished, he sat back on his heels, desperate to regain control again. He was conscious of the man watching him, but he did his best to shut off the world by closing his eyes. He could feel the shame and the tears rising in him.

“You really did get smashed, eh?” the man above him said. Lafayette looked up guiltily. The man wore a surprised expression, his eyebrows raised and his mouth open in a little “o” under his unkempt beard.

He changed his face quickly, though. Before long, he had a cheery smile that made the edges of his eyes crinkle with laugh lines. “Don’t worry, buddy,” the man laughed, a thick accent that was sort of Scottish, sort of American coming through in his voice. “Have you drunk any water yet today?” he asked.

Lafayette hesitated. This man was either Tallmadge or Brewster, one of the guards George had posted. Finally, after evaluating the man’s trustworthiness, Lafayette nodded.

The man smiled even wider, if that was possible. “Well, then, you’ve just got some left over stuff to get rid of. I’m Brewster, by the way. Come on, let’s get you home!” Brewster held out a hand for Lafayette, obviously pleased by his own offer of friendship to Lafayette.

Lafayette delicately took Brewster’s hand in his own, standing up slowly and using the door as support when he stumbled slightly. Brewster looked ready to clap him on the back and set off down the hallway, but Lafayette stopped him.

“Mr. Brewster…” he started, not quite sure if what he was about to say was a good idea.

Brewster had no such qualms, however, and asked a quick, “What?”

“Mr. Brewster, I don’t think I’m ready to leave yet,” Lafayette admitted, his hands clasped in nervousness. Brewster raised a skeptical brow, prompting Lafayette to continue. “I’d like to talk to George before I leave. I want to make sure I didn’t completely humiliate myself last night,” Lafayette said, faking a guilty smile in an attempt to get the guard to allow him to stay.

Brewster simply gave him a short nod. “That’s understandable,” he agreed . He stepped towards Lafayette and, with a solid clap on the shoulder, said, “I’ll tell Washington you want to talk to him and he’ll be in real quick. I also send someone to take care of… that.” A quick nod to the trash can.

Brewster gently nudged Lafayette back into the room and closed the door, assumedly off to talk with the President.

Lafayette felt weak in the knees. Throwing up had done nothing good for his self-confidence, and he was terrified of what George would tell him he had said. More than that, he was terrified about George’s reaction to those admittances. And how was he supposed to thank George for letting him sleep in his bed? Any way to say that would sound weird, at least to Lafayette. Maybe he was overthinking this.

Overthinking. Whenever Lafayette felt his head running in circles, he would make a video. This wasn’t the best time, but Lafayette whipped out his phone anyways. Oh, the wonders of modern technology! Tapping the camera app, Lafayette began to record.

In the next room, George Washington was not having quite as much fun. A group had gathered to protest paparazzi, claiming that it was an invasion of privacy and needed to be outlawed. Little did they know, Washington knew all about the problems with paparazzi. Had first-hand experience, actually. George had done his best to try to pass laws against paparazzi, but to no avail - it went against the First Amendment and could not be allowed.

George rubbed his brow and attempted to look interested as the group barraged him with facts, figures, and opinions that George already knew about. They weren’t the first group to talk about privacy laws and human dignity. George wanted nothing more than to kick these people out and go back to sleep.

Thankfully, George’s reason walked right through the door.

Caleb Brewster entered silently, sneaking around the protesters and behind George’s chair. The bodyguard leaned down next to George’s ear, speaking softly so that only George could hear, and even then barely.

“Lafayette is in the other room. He’d like to speak with you before he leaves,” Brewster whispered.

George absorbed the information, then nodded shortly. He gave Brewster a look that said, I’ll be there soon, then he turned back to the protesters.

“Sirs and madams, I will most definitely take your opinions into consideration. Now, we’ve tried and failed to outlaw paparazzi in the past, so I can’t make any promises. But I will keep your stance in my thoughts,” Washington lied, cutting off the head speaker. The President began to stand when the protester interrupted him.

“We’re not quite finished yet,” the man said, slightly flustered at being denied.

“I have an important appointment,” George said, walking past him towards the main hallway. “Brewster, see this group out,” he called over his shoulder as he opened the door.

George hastened to his bedroom, speed walking to the door. When he did reach the white wooden entrance, he took a moment to compose himself. Jacket straightened, eyebrows brushed over, scalp rubbed with one hand. He had no hair to tousle attractively, but running his palm over his head made him feel better.

Once he had arranged himself, George took a breath and opened the bedroom door.

Lafayette perched on the edge of the comfortable couch, as if he wasn’t quite sure whether or not he should be sitting there. His jacket was folded over his lap and his shirt was wrinkled; his hair looked like it was hastily finger-combed than pulled into a ponytail with a spare hair tie.

When George opened the door, the Frenchman shot up. For a moment the two stared at each other, then Lafayette opened his mouth to speak. Silence for a beat, then two. When no sound came out of the man’s mouth, George decided to close the door behind him. The sound of the door shutting was like a gunshot, and both George and Lafayette started talking at the same time.

“Good to see you’re awake-”

“George, I’m so sorry-”

They stopped when they realized they had each talked over the other, and George made a tiny motion for Lafayette to speak after enduring a period of awkward silence.

Lafayette took a breath, pulling himself together. “George,” he sighed, sounding devastatingly disappointed in himself, “I’m so sorry. I did not think I would get drunk, and I should not have called you, even though I suppose I was drunk and could not control my actions, yes? It’s just I was so mad and I guess I just got drunk and Alex - you know Hamilton - he went on a date with John! And I’m sure he had a wonderful time and I did not and I’m rambling now and I stole your bed, and… last night was a mistake. I apologize.”

George stood for a moment in stunned silence after the rush of words falling out of Lafayette’s mouth. When he had absorbed everything that was said, he jumped back into action.

“Lafayette, you don’t have to apologize,” George said, striding towards the Frenchman. “You were upset, you were drunk, you weren’t trying to be a hassle. Not that you were,” George corrected himself quickly, “But if you had been… a hassle - which you were not - it would not have been a problem.” He finished his explanation with a small smile on his face and a hand on Lafayette’s shoulder, uncomfortably aware of the mix-up of words at the end. George Washington was not an eloquent man.

Lafayette smiled back, a natural smile. He closed his eyes and giggled slightly, which was followed by a tired sigh. “I just don’t want to be a problem to you, mon couer,” he said in a voice that sounded completely exhausted.

“Gilbert,” George murmured, “You could never be a problem to me.”

George didn’t comprehend how meaningful of a statement he had said until Lafayette was staring at him with wide, soulful eyes. George could practically feel his face turn red as he quickly stuffed his hands in his pockets.

“I mean that you’re a good friend,” he tried to correct himself gruffly, not meeting Lafayette’s eyes.

Lafayette giggled again, that beautifully musical sound. Then, his face took on an expression of pain.

“George,” Lafayette started awkwardly, trying desperately to think of how best to ask his question, “Did I… tell you anything strange when I was drunk? I have the tendency to be embarrassingly honest.” He gave George a desperate look, hoping against hope that he would say no, but also knowing that he couldn’t change anything now.

To his relief, George only shrugged. Then, not quite as relieving, George said, “Only that you’re trans.”

Lafayette felt the rise of terror in him. Maybe that’s why George was angry. Maybe he was transphobic. Maybe he would get him fired. Maybe he would hit him and throw him out and say that he would never be a man.

George, magical man that he was, sensed Lafayette’s fear. Again, he put his hand on his shoulder, and spoke in the soothing tone that could probably tame unicorns.

“Lafayette,” George said, “that could never make me hate you. The fact that you’re trans won’t change my relationship with you. You’re still Lafayette, and you’re still my friend. Okay?”

Lafayette nodded shyly, giving a slightly ashamed smile and covering George’s hand with his own. “I was just scared,” he whispered.

George moved so that both of his hands rested on Lafayette’s arms. “And you have every right to be,” George stated, “But don’t think you need to be afraid of me. I’m your friend. And nothing will change that. Unless you try to assassinate me for some reason, in which case we’re on shaky ground.”

Lafayette laughed, and his sunshine smile lit up the room. George’s heart leapt - one more secret that he knew about Lafayette that he wouldn’t have to hide knowing about.

It was then that George realized how close they were.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A DAY LATE IM SO SORRY


	15. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter fourteen!

George’s arms boxed in Lafayette, but the Frenchman didn’t seem to mind. In fact, he seemed to be holding his hand over George’s quite fondly. His smile was aimed directly at George, and if George didn’t know better he would say that his eyes were full of adoration. That was silly, of course. But Lafayette seemed so perfectly comfortable in George’s embrace, and it felt so right to be holding Lafayette like this - George moved one large hand to cup Lafayette’s jaw, and Lafayette leaned a fraction of an inch closer. Two pairs of dark eyes became darker as the pupils dilated, and George found himself staring at Lafayette’s lips. The two moved closer to each other, their eyes slipping closed and Lafayette’s head tilting ever so slightly...

_Knock, knock, knock!_

Surprised, George pulled away guiltily. Lafayette furrowed his brows and opened his eyes, but he didn’t move away until George stepped towards the door. As the President walked towards the entrance, Lafayette frantically pulled at his ruffled clothing. If it was someone important, he would want to look presentable.

George opened the door to greet a tall, thin man with a sharp nose and sharper frown. He nudged his way in, and the toes of his expensive shoes were pointed. Lafayette received a suspicious glare, but was then promptly ignored.

The man swung his way around to face George, who was already rubbing his forehead in annoyance. “I have a message from King George III!” the man trilled in a British accent, and George nodded with a small sigh. He had obviously gotten messages at inopportune moments before, and by the same person.

“Mr. Seabury, will the King ever learn how to use email?” George asked with an obvious glare to the thin man. Lafayette straightened slightly in surprise - he’d never seen George get annoyed with anyone.

Seabury seemed to be more used to it, and gave an indignant huff of breath. “The King prefers his letters read aloud by a trusted messenger,” he informed the President, and pulled out a piece of paper.

Just as Seabury cleared his throat to read, George snatched the paper from his hand. He looked over it once, the folded it crisply. “So the King wants me over for dinner?” he asked. He didn’t give Seabury the time to respond, and instead grumbled, “I think he could have used email for that.” Seabury raised one finger, ready to defend his king, but George interrupted him again with a wave of his hand. “Yes, yes, I know, he prefers his letters read aloud by a trusted messenger. Just tell me when he wants to meet and we’ll figure it out.”

Seabury took back the piece of paper and stuffed it in his jacket. “Well,” he fumbled, “the King hasn’t quite decided on when and where he would like to meet, but-”

“Then have him decide and send another message. And this time, have him email me. Now get out,” Washington commanded, pointing to the door.

Seabury gasped at this mistreatment. “Sir! Certainly you wouldn’t be so undiplomatic in your conduct-”

“Normally, I wouldn’t,” Washington growled, “but in case you haven’t noticed, I’m having a private meeting. We can speak again at a different time, but right now I have more pressing matters than the King’s dinner date. Now _go_.” Washington pointed again, this time more forcefully, and Seabury scuttled out the door with a glare to Lafayette.

The white door closed after him with a quiet _click_. For a moment, the room was silent. George stood with one hand on the door, his shoulders slumping ever so slightly. He looked… smaller. And tired. Lafayette waited in the middle of the room, shifting from foot to foot as he tried to think of something to say. He wanted to comfort George, but the closeness that they had earlier was gone.

Now they were just the President and an intern standing together in a bedroom.

After what seemed to be an eternity of deafening silence, George straightened up and cleared his throat. “I, uh, I apologize for… him,” he stuttered, smoothing his jacket with his hands.

Lafayette couldn’t help the small smile on his face. “Oh, it’s alright,” he said, glancing away from George. “It wasn’t your fault.”

More silence.

“Well,” Lafayette said, purposefully breaking the awkward tension with a loud, braying voice, “Normally I would ask if we could get together for lunch, but it seems it’s a bit late for that.” The Frenchman laughed and glanced behind him out the window. Anything to keep from looking at George.

“Um, perhaps…” George started, fiddling with his hands, “We could eat lunch together tomorrow? Or- you don’t have work tomorrow. Monday? Unless you’d rather not…”

Lafayette chuckled, a real chuckle this time. “I would love to go to lunch with you tomorrow,” he said softly. George met his eyes, and got lost in the soft brown irises that gazed so sweetly at him. That is, until Lafayette glanced away with a blush on his face.

George’s breath was caught in his throat. Lafayette was beautifully silhouetted by the softened sunlight filtering in through the curtains behind him. The light caught on the dark curls around his head, making it look like he had a golden halo as he stood in George’s room. George felt that familiar tug in his heart when Lafayette looked back up at him, his dark eyes seeming to glow gold. George didn’t even attempt to hide his staring.

Thankfully, Lafayette’s gaze was drawn the to door as he moved to leave. He paused before the wooden door that George still stood next to, brushing his shoulder against George’s chest as he reached for the handle.

“I’ll see you at lunch tomorrow,” Lafayette said with a low voice as his fingers curled around the door handle.

George nodded, still staring, and replied with a breathless, “Yeah.”

That short response made Lafayette’s lips quirk, and he stepped closer to George than necessary when he walked out to the hallway, closing the door behind him.

George didn’t move for a moment after Lafayette left, still buzzing from the interaction they just had. It felt like every nerve was tingling, like his blood was singing, like he could scream and kiss someone at the same time. It was euphoria, matched only by the experience of actually being with Lafayette.

A slight knock came from the office door, snapping George out of his high. Brewster stuck in his head. “You’ve got people claiming they have got a meeting with you, sir,” he informed George, raising a brow at the slightly unfocused President. George quickly straightened his jacket, standing tall.

“Of course, Tallmadge. I’ll be right in.”

In the hallway, Lafayette was freaking out slightly more. His pace was hurried as he tried desperately to keep from squealing, trying to pent his energy some other way. By the time he got to the front door, he was practically running, and he burst down the steps with a wide grin on his face. He was panicking - freaking out - didn’t know what to do, that could have fucked up _everything_ , but it was the closest he had gotten to George, ever, and he was riding the wave right now.

He would crash later.

Alexander was unlucky enough to bear the brunt of that emotional downpour. After an afternoon of barely restrained energy, reality was setting in for the romantic Frenchman, and it was up to Alex to listen to his complaints as he tried to read.

“I threw up in his trash can,” Lafayette groaned, pressing his head into his hands.

Alexander shrugged nonchalantly. “It’s fine, dude, you were drunk, it happens all the time,” he grunted, ignoring the whines coming from the sofa.

Lafayette sprawled across the couch, his head hanging back on the armrest. “But I still threw up. He probably thinks I’m some gross alcoholic who goes drinking all the time and throws up in other people’s trash cans. He probably hates me,” Lafayette whimpered, mouth turning down at the thought of George hating him.

Alexander sighed. He’d been doing that a lot in this conversation - it was a natural response to Lafayette being an over-the-top drama queen. “Laf, it can’t be that bad,” he consoled his friend.

Lafayette pouted. “Easy for you to say,” he huffed. “You had a great date last night.”

Alexander smiled to himself, a response that he couldn’t control. “Okay, but you guys are going to lunch tomorrow. So he can’t possibly hate you,” Alexander offered.

A sigh from the couch. Lafayette knew he was right - but there was something else nagging at his thoughts.

“Alexander,” Lafayette asked, a serious tone creeping into his voice as he sat up, “something strange happened during my conversation with George earlier.”

The man across from Lafayette raised a brow. It was clear from his tone that whatever had happened was serious, and it piqued Alex’s interest. He closed the book that he had been skimming through and gave Lafayette his full attention, leaning forward to prompt his friend to continue.

Lafayette hesitated for a moment, playing with his fingers as if trying to decide whether or not to say what was on his mind. “It is… I may be misunderstanding it, but at one point, George held me close.” Lafayette’s cheeks bloomed red at the memory. “He put his hand on my jaw, and looked directly into my eyes, and we were so close.” Lafayette knew that he was beginning to sound childishly romantic, but he didn’t care.

Alexander didn’t, either. The short man straightened up, his eyes brightening. “What happened, now?” he asked, digging for more information.

Lafayette shrugged shyly. “Just what I told you. We were very close. He was holding my face, and we were so close - I could’ve kissed him, if I wanted,” he sighed dreamily.

The wicked grin on Alex’s face only widened. “Kissed him, huh? Why didn’t you? Laf, what if _he_ was trying to kiss _you_?” Alex pressed excitedly.

Laf squared his shoulders, his eyes widening. “We- nothing happened because someone came in with a message,” Lafayette said, his voice trembling slightly. What if - what if George actually did want to kiss him? What if George wasn’t as straight as he had originally thought?

Alexander hopped around the room like a child on a sugar high. “Laf! Laf! He likes you! He fuckin’ likes you!” he cheered, ecstatic that his friend was going to date someone that Alex actually liked.

Lafayette, on the other hand, was still apprehensive. “He knows that I’m trans,” he said, “and he knows that I’m gay. We already spend a lot of time together, and I trust him. But - I’m still nervous.”

Alexander tried to stop moving mid-hop. “What do you mean, you’re nervous? Lafayette - there’s nothing to be nervous about! Ugh, you know what? This is a job for someone else. Three someone elses.”

Fifteen minutes later, Eliza Schuyler had arrived.

“Angelica and Peggy are still at work,” she explained to a whining Alexander, then turned her full attention to the upset Frenchman on the couch. “Hey, Lafayette,” she cooed, perching herself next to him. “So I heard that someone has a crush on the President and doesn’t know if he should say anything?”

Lafayette nodded guiltily, not meeting her eyes - he knew that she would convince him in the end, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t resist for now.

A hand on his shoulder. Lafayette turned, and saw Eliza’s soft brown eyes fixing him with a firm gaze. “Gilbert,” she said in a voice that allowed no arguments, “that man is obviously very fond of you. He’s fine with the fact that you’re trans, he knows you well - take a chance.” When Lafayette said nothing in response, she shook his shoulder lightly. “Who left France when he was 19 to go to a country across the sea?” Eliza asked.

“...me,” Lafayette answered reluctantly.

“And who didn’t speak a lick of English when he got there, but learned the language in a year?’

“I did.”

“And who did that against his guardian’s wishes?”

“Me.”

A smile broke Eliza's face. “And who’s the best?”

Lafayette couldn’t help grinning in response. “ _C’est moi_.”

“That’s right. Gilbert, you’ve never had problems with taking leaps of faith. This isn’t any different.” Eliza’s hand was a heavy weight on his shoulder. “Tell him how you feel.”

Lafayette let out a breath of air and, after a long moment, replied, “Yes. Yes I will. Tomorrow.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for all of this (no I'm not).
> 
> Come yell at me on tumblr at [sweetest-garlic](sweetest-garlic.tumblr.com) or [sweetest-doodle](sweetest-doodle.tumblr.com).


	16. 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THE LAST CHAPTER....
> 
> Have fun and correct my french if it sucks

Lunch with Lafayette was usually a casual affair for George; he unbuttoned his jacket, loosened his tie slightly, allowed himself just the smallest hint of a comfortable slouch. Lafayette had alway been the same way, completely relaxed around the man that most would be intimidated by. Needless to say, the two men had grown close after months of familiar interaction. George just hoped that he hadn’t fucked the whole thing up.

The dingy sandwich shop was, as always, visited by people who came to get their food and left quickly, leaving the hastily cleared tables open to George and the few others that chose to sit down and eat. The sandwiches hadn’t changed since George began eating there, only a different brand of soggy bread or a different color of mystery meat. The smudged windows let in some natural light, but most of the establishment was lit by unflattering fluorescent bars. The smell of grease and old food hung in the air and tickled the nose with every breath. Normally, George was fine with it.

But normally, Lafayette was there.

George teased the edge of the paper wrapped around his sandwich, the manners drilled into him since he was a child telling him _don’t eat until everyone has sat down._ Lafayette hadn’t even arrived, and so he certainly hadn’t sat down.

With every passing minute, George could feel his heart dropping. It was a gorgeous Saturday, and most people would rather be anywhere than here. Even if it were a regular weekday, George couldn’t have blamed his friend for skipping lunch to spend time in the sun.

As he was sitting alone in the restaurant, George saw a walking together outside, their hands entwined and their smiles gentle, seemingly glowing in the sunlight. George felt an ache in his chest.

Jesus fucking _Christ_. What was he doing? What was he thinking? Sitting inside a dingy sandwich shop, waiting for someone he was hopelessly in love with. He was waiting for someone he loved, and he wasn’t going to tell him that he loved him.

“Remember,” John Adams had said the night before, “you two are friends. Yesterday was a friendly hug. There’s nothing going on. Don’t ruin anything.”

George recalled John’s face, the man’s eyes staring at him from under heavy lids, his lips pressed into a firm line. One brow had been raised at him suspiciously - John knew that George was turning the words over in his mind, and that single skeptical look had almost pushed the President to nod in agreement.

“You can’t take a hit like that. There are already plenty of people who would take down a black president. People would try even harder if they thought you were bi,” John pushed, ever the voice of reason. “Besides,” he continued, looking to the drink in his hand, “this is just you trying to get over your ex-wife. You know it, and so do I. There’s nothing there.”

George had swallowed his pride and nodded his head. This wasn’t real. He couldn’t take a hit like that. Don’t ruin anything. Don’t say anything.

Looking down at his sub-par sandwich, George’s fists tightened. This place was horrible. The food was terrible, the windows were dirty, and Lafayette hadn’t even bothered to text him to say that he wasn’t going to show up. Even if he had shown up, nothing would have changed. George would have apologized for yesterday, or not said anything and ignored it, and life would go on.

If that was the way it was supposed to go, then life sucked.

George stood up, grabbing his uneaten sandwich to throw it in the trash. He nearly ran out of the shop, pushing his way out the door and hurrying down the sidewalk. He didn’t want a dingy sandwich shop, he didn’t want a soggy sandwich, and he certainly didn’t want to maintain any sort of “safe” friendship with Lafayette.

Before George could take more than 5 long strides, he heard a voice behind him - _“George! George!”_

George turned on his heel just as a tall Frenchman latched a hand to his arm. “George,” Lafayette said breathlessly, his hair mussed from running down the sidewalk and his face red. “George, I saw you leaving, I’m sorry I was late, I didn’t-”

“Lafayette, I need to tell you something,” George interrupted the Frenchman, pleading with his eyes.

Lafayette blinked, surprised at the raw emotion in George’s eyes. “Well, let’s go inside then-”

“No, Lafayette, I don’t want to go inside. I- I already threw away my sandwich,” George admitted, stuttering over the words that he was so nervous to say.

Lafayette’s brow creased in concern, his hand a gentle pressure on his arm. “George, are you alright?” the Frenchman asked, legitimately worried for the health - or the sanity - of his friend. He felt a spike of fear run through him. What if this was all a result of yesterday - that weird interaction, the energy that was so heavy in the room? What if George thought it was horrible, wanted to end their friendship?

It was too early to tell. George shook his head at Lafayette’s question, saying desperately, “Lafayette, I need to tell you something.”

Lafayette glanced around them, and saw more than a few pairs of eyes looking their way. He turned back to Washington, lightly squeezing his arm. “ _Mon general_ , there are too many people here. Let’s go somewhere else, and then you can tell me what you need.”

George nodded wordlessly, pulling out his phone. “I’ll call my car,” he explained, and quickly told the person on the other end of the line their address.

The ride to the White House was visibly tense - the silence hung heavy and uncomfortable in the air, and Lafayette sat rigidly straight. When they finally did arrive at George’s home, the President directed Lafayette to his bedroom.

In the empty room, the previous silence that was like a kind of thick humidity gave way to coldness, as if both of them would freeze in the moment. It was a delicate, icy quiet, the kind that leaves one with nothing to say.

George’s back was to Lafayette. The Frenchman could see remnants of military training in him - the square set of his shoulders, the rigid posture, absolute stillness that Lafayette could rarely manage. The President’s broad back created a barrier of sorts, and Lafayette allowed him a moment to compose himself. There was nothing that he could say to break that wall anyways.

Finally, George turned around. His eyes met Lafayette’s, and they were set with quiet determination.

“Gilbert, I never thought that I would say this to you. I was too afraid of what you would say. I thought that you would hate me, and then I thought that it would be too dangerous, and then somebody else convinced me that how I feel isn’t real. But, frankly, I don’t care. No matter how it plays out, I love you.”

Lafayette stood in shock, not quite able to process what had just happened. He wished that he could give some sort of beautiful, poetic response to such a blunt declaration, but all he could say was a confused, “ _Quoi_?”

George started. That, obviously, was not the answer he was expecting. “I love you,” he repeated. “Or, maybe it’s not love, maybe it’s a crush even though I’m in my forties. I don’t know if I’m in love with you or not, because I’ve only known you personally for a few months, but I like you enough, and I think that there’s something there and I wanted to tell you because - well, after what happened yesterday, I thought you should know. I love you.”

No response.

“If you don’t love me, too, that’s alright, but I’d like you to at least tell me yes or no.”

Lafayette said nothing. Instead he pulled out his phone.

“Ah,” George said, disappointed, “If you’re calling a ride, I can get someone else to drive you home.”

Lafayette shook his head and walked towards George, holding out the device. “I want you to watch this video,” was all that he said.

George took the phone from his hand and held it up. The screen had a yesterday’s date on it, as well as a picture of Lafayette in his room with a play button on top. George pressed the white triangle with one huge finger, and the video began to play.

The shaking video showed Lafayette pulling at his tie and fussing with his hair as he tried, and failed, to keep the camera steady.

“So,” said video Lafayette, “Apparently I am in the bedroom of my boss, where I slept last night because I texted him last night when I was drunk after a bad date and he came and picked me up with his bodyguards and I spent the night in his bedroom. I slept in his bed.”

“Now, I would like to clarify that I did not sleep with my boss. I have not slept with my boss… yet.” George’s face went red. “I would not mind, of course, sleeping with him… um…” Video Lafayette also blushed, trailing off slightly. “But, he is my boss, and that is, how you say, never going to happen. I- well.”

“In the perfect world, I would not be so nervous about sleeping in his bed, or sleeping with him. I am quite fond of him. I… well… _Je l’aime._ ” Video Lafayette gave a sad smile. “I love him.”

George paused the video hastily, pushing the phone out to Lafayette. “I think that’s all I need to see,” he said. After months of watching Lafayette on video, he found that he would much rather see him in real life.

Lafayette took the phone with a silent nod. “Well,” George grunted, clearing his voice, “You love me.” Lafayette nodded, not meeting George’s eyes. “And you would like to be… dating me?” Lafayette nodded again. “And you would also like to sleep with me, both in the literal sense and in the metaphorical?” At this, Lafayette’s face grew red and he gave a nervous titter, nodding once more. George inclined his head in acknowledgment. “Well, I, ah, have to echo all of those statements. Including the last one. But maybe not yet!”

Lafayette’s sunshine smile broke through, and he met George’s eyes.

“George,” he said, “There was something I didn’t tell you when we had our first conversation, about the culture in France. Do you remember? Yes, that conversation… I did not tell you everything.” Lafayette took a step closer, clearly in George’s personal space. “Back in France, dating works differently. We… there is no such thing as a first date. You just… are dating. Would you like to be dating?”

George took a deep breath. “Yes, I would.”

Lafayette pressed a chaste kiss to George’s lips, and George swore he could taste sunshine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stay tuned for an epilogue on Monday!
> 
> Come yell at me on tumblr at [sweetest-garlic](sweetest-garlic.tumblr.com) or at [sweetest-doodle](sweetest-doodle.tumblr.com).


	17. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it! The complete end of this story. I want to say thank you to everyone who has commented on, read, and kudos'd this work - none of this would have been written or shared without you, and I'm so thankful that I've had this community to write for!
> 
> I will definitely keep writing other stories, but I'm pleased to have finally finished this one. I love you guys, and I'll see you again in other stories!

“Okay, scoot over.”

“Gilbert, I’m plenty close.”

“ _Non, mon couer,_ you have to be closer than you think to fit in the camera.”

Lafayette pulled George to his side, leaning on his boyfriend’s arm as they huddled in front of Lafayette’s video camera that was perched on George’s mattress. George knew that they were plenty close, but he followed his boyfriend’s instructions. Lafayette wanted him closer, and how could he say no to that?

George remembered a time when casual touches like these were still new and unexplored territory. Kissing was an adventure, cuddling was a journey. Sex revealed new discoveries, some for Lafayette and many for George. They were past the point where they were still unfamiliar with each other, but not far enough that they could be satisfied with being alone in the same room and not touch each other somehow. There was still more to explore for both of them, and now was the time for memorizing every quirk of the other’s body. Their physical relationship was strong, and getting stronger by the day.

That is not to say that they didn’t have their troubles. It had been about a week into the relationship that George had confessed to Lafayette that he knew about his YouTube channel, overcome with the guilt of knowing that he had been invading Lafayette’s private life without consent. Lafayette was surprised, but certainly not angry. He was flattered when George confessed that he was a fan and could not suppress a giggle at the fact that his channel was the reason why George wanted to deepen their relationship.

“I never thought of you to be a fanboy,” Lafayette had chuckled, tracing the pads of his fingers on George’s bare shoulder. George responded with a deep blush and a grumble of embarrassment. Lafayette couldn’t blame him for his original obsession, but he made George promise not to watch any more of his videos without his permission.

“ _Mon coeur_ , I want to tell you these things to your face, not through a screen,” Lafayette said, his lips brushing the back of George’s neck. George nodded, hiding his face in shame. It took some coaxing, but Lafayette ended up getting him out of his shell. “Maybe one day we can make a video together,” Lafayette mumbled.

It was weeks of conversation before the two agreed on what they would create together. Even sitting on his bed with the camera in front of him, George still felt a whisper of indecisiveness in him. This was dangerous.

Lafayette leaned forward to start the recording.

“ _Bonjour, mes choux!_ ” Lafayette greeted with a smile and jazz hands. He turned to George expectantly.

“Hello,” George said lamely, not quite sure what to say. It felt strange talking to a camera, even though he knew that this video would probably end up being seen by millions.

“Okay!” Lafayette chirped with his sunny smile, turning back to the camera. “Today I am going to do the boyfriend tag! So, here is my boyfriend! Introduce yourself.”

George gave an uncomfortable smile. “I’m, uh, I’m George,” he said.

Lafayette grinned at George’s simple introduction. “You’re so cute when you’re embarrassed,” he cooed under his breath, then said, “Let’s start with the questions!”

Altogether, there were 30 questions, some of them simple - who said “I love you” first - and some more complicated - which of Lafayette’s traits is George’s favorite? He had trouble choosing one of them.

Half an hour of recording later, they had included questions, answers, and a section that they would have to cut out because of an impromptu makeout session. It had started as a chaste kiss, but then George held it out, pressed harder and held Lafayette closer. Minutes later, Lafayette broke the kiss, talking breathlessly about the camera that was set up, and George pulled away respectfully.

It didn’t take more than a few days to edit the video - Lafayette thoroughly enjoyed creating it - and after that, it had only been the manner of a final nod, a trusting kiss and publication.

The video went viral.

Some claimed that it was a hoax, others swore to bring down their “corrupt government,” and an optimistically large group gave an outpouring of support to the President and the Marquis. The video was put up on Twitter, Tumblr, Reddit, and clips were uploaded to Vine. It quickly became one of the most watched videos in America.

George didn’t watch it once. He much preferred Gilbert in real life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will be posting stories again at another time, but for now, come yell at me on tumblr at [sweetest-garlic](sweetest-garlic.tumblr.com) or [sweetest-doodle](sweetest-doodle.tumblr.com).
> 
> Love y'all!


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